Distraction and Reaction

1-Distraction

The books, set out in rows,
were placed in order of importance, those
he read more often to the left,
arranged by size (and heft).

He pulled out Wilbur first,
preferring the adroit, supremely-versed
collections of a stately mind
to smooth the jagged grind

of days that chipped away
at the enamel of his soul’s array,
cracking his comfort with the force
of corporate intercourse.

2-Reaction

The words were smooth, embossed
with priceless grace, a beacon for the lost
intentions of a would-be scribe,
who, thirsting to imbibe

the fluid words, would drink,
absorb the nectar of a volume's ink
and, with the spike of reason, pound
the syncopated sound

of rhythm and of rhyme,
the pulse of life in stilled and passing time,
dancing with shadows to decide
the music of the ride.

At The Captain's Table, Emerald Isle, NC

They stared across Formica—minds apart—
yet it appeared they were accustomed to
a certain silence; then the breakfast cart
arrived in time to serve as their excuse
for not conversing more, except, "Would you
please pass the salt?" or maybe, "How's the juice?"

Contrasting their dispassion was the laughter
wafting loudly from another booth,
disturbing their indifference, trailing after
jokes or comments made, or quick retorts
in the unbridled, rowdy speech of youth,
covering every base from sex to sports.

The couple sat there—static to the end—  
until they finished, paid, and rose to leave.   
But then I saw her withered hand extend
to smooth a stubborn wrinkle on his back;
and as they trudged away, she held his sleeve,
then took his hand in hers, which made him crack

a smile, destroying my assumptions that
a conversation—or a lack thereof—  
defined the couple's state; or how they sat—  
devoid of any signs of true romance—
was telling.  This, though, proved that knowing love
was not a grand display, like Spring in France.

It was the tingle of familiar skin,
not the arrival of expected flowers.
It was the tranquil moments, warm within
the borders of a pair of wedding rings.
It was the comfort of those silent hours,
where love sustains itself with little things.

The Convenient Muse 

I stopped at a convenience store
just past the Mass-New Hampshire line
for M & M’s, a local wine,
and good directions to the shore.

The clerk showed off a shapely ass
and hair a rusty Autumn-red
that sprang uniquely from her head.
A messy but attractive mass,

it bobbed with spirit as she told
me how to find the beach from there.
I thanked her, said I liked her hair,
and mumbled that my map was old.

She nodded knowingly, and smiled
at my attempt to pick her up,
then sipped some coffee from a cup
that said, in purple, Girls Gone Wild.

Flirtation, my distinct milieu,
seemed fitting for the day's endeavor.
I didn't want her for forever
(one afternoon would surely do),

so, tightened by a lonely drive,
I felt my twisted heartstrings tug
on my libido. With a shrug,
I asked, "Could you get off at five?"

Intrigued, she said, "I might arrange it
if I believe you're here to find
not just a body, but a mind.
I have one, but you'll have to change it."

A customer came up, and I
scuttled aside, observing her
negotiate the register
like she was calculating Pi.

This catch will need a better bait,
I thought, and shifted to a tactic
involving topics more didactic
than the suggestion of a date.

We spent the afternoon discussing
the dark intelligence of Poe,
the civil lessons of Thoreau,
and, by the dusk, we'd started fussing

over Romantic Era scribes.
Byron or Shelley: who's the best?
Had modern poetry regressed
amid the free and formal jibes

that flew, like salvos, in the war
that matched opposing schools of thought?
By six o'clock, I must've bought
at least a quarter of the store.

Predictably, the sugar high
created such a fizzling crash
that I, a Phoenix, burned to ash
and, with reluctance, said goodbye.

One might suggest, or worse, accuse
me of surrender to a foe
who's fortress cast a neon glow,
but I insist that she's my Muse,

well-rounded (like her derriere),
well-stocked in mind (and M & M's),
with eyes that flash like slivered gems
beneath that curly copper hair.