They left their car behind in the Pan Handle of Florida.
Broken down along the side of the road.
Tin can from a Chunky’s Chicken Corn Chowder soup barely holding
Together the rotten muffler.
Love.
Flashes like heat waves rolling up from asphalt
Pavement, as smoke eddies and drifts from a lit
Pall Mall filter Gold Light 100, grasped like a lifeline into
Another time where glorious naivety
Flexed in her 19 year old calve muscles.
Feet strong and unweary, propped on the dashboard watching the
Moss dipped trees roll along outside the window while Jethro Tull blasts from the radio.
These stories written in the power of youth and the glory of
Summers wandered through decades ago.
Her skin tattooed now with narratives and bygone memorabilia.
Literally.
She, her, I, wears her heart on her sleeve.
(Left side inside wrist wreathed with cherry blossoms)
She, her, I, has not forgotten the sunshine splash of freckles
Constellating his face and the desire badgering her heart to kiss each one.
Love rises like mist in a swimming pool at night in
Saint Augustine awash in humidity and the susurration of wind in palm leaves.
Song of flash pan memories born on the wings of cicadas,
Bark of a worried dog, crackle of fire on the edge of night,
Embers glowing on her (my) face, fronting strength under the curious
Gaze of heroin junkies and good ol’ boys with running mates and prostitute
Companions holding bent Budweiser can carburetor crack pipes.
She, her, I, will dance, never the less, none the less, dance now, dance then
Beneath the swelter of stars, amid the whispers of sexy, sexy, sexy
Spilling from the mouths of men unable to grasp her, attain her, hold her (me).
Love, lost like a plasticine slipper in the dusky playa at sunset.
Burnished with desire to kiss the bottom lip of his mouth and vanish into the
Streets of the Mission District, oh my sweet San Francisco how unexpected
Summer night strewn me with ghost kisses of fog being sucked in over Twin Peaks.
She, her, I will climb the hills back towards the sea, remember her (me) her face
Aswirl in dark curls, your face writ with awe, once again in her (my) hands.
Oh bluest eyes
Peering back into mine, this blissful fantasy a phantasmagoric feeling all
Ephemeral and moon washed will haunt you, I, me no more.
For yes, oh yes,
My darling.
This too shall pass.
Auntiebubba 