Shore of Summer

Not afraid to sit next to –
no, not that – afraid to get wet,
or of losing a shoe in this green muddy mess –
buzzing, cold, smiling on this (summer) night.

Sharp-turns in fog pavement
through 1920s flapper hide-out get-aways,
now a cramped residential bliss
set on a once-upon-a-time lake-a-dreams.

Off ramps, on ramps – both, many times –
a drive past police, a visit from authority, unwelcomed presences, –
to “here” but really “there” – here or there, no matter,
jazz keeps the rhythm, keeps us level and sane, keeps the pace.

Experience shared –
by way of transportation and communication –
knowledge by way of experience not books: this is decidedly better –
racy topics of sleep and sex (but not in that order) (and no, not out of line).

The water is high, no beach, bookshop closed –
what do we make of this change? – we can welcome
or we can turn and run, or better yet we can kick and scream – and cry and sob
because it is ours and we miss it – and we want something.

Is there a tension? No –
or at least, there shouldn’t be, or at least –
I don’t want there to be,
and so there isn’t.

Conversation of lovers and best-friends –
friends and best-lovers, homes and temporary residencies –
their difference is the key – sentimentality, or lack there of –
home is where the memory is, others fall into place as they should, or never do.

Where do we go at 3:37AM? –
home because it’s time? – not yet,
as there are some things that keep time better than a wrist-watch,
like an “almanac of artistic directions” – I’m sorry to make you feel uneasy…

I don’t want to go (despite what you think) (despite what we do) –
clutching a branch, tasting the heavy wet summer air, from this tree –
to eternity? to safe retreats? damnation? how about there? –
do you see it? there, between the two lights? yes, there.