When I ab and sunglass, trim, talk low-and-slow — pose an aging, faithful body against sunning sand and waves, breathless for perfection’s attention, I know: Brother, you’re not for me. When I’m empty, yet still scrape this darkening shell for one more acceptable pearl; when I pray dimmed sea-light and dusky stars right my crooked face, I know: Brother, you're not for me. But if on this patient winter’s beach we wander from books to pasts, honor quiet scars and funny ignorance, sandy jeans, faded flannel shirts warm against the LA cool; cheap beer; if you ask for another, eyes still on the page, and laugh a bit at my dancing disbelief: Brother, my answer is yes.
Poems, the good ones, are small stories. See other stories here.