poems

slow season in titusville

By April 25, 2020 No Comments

early this morning,
just after homemade coffee
you drove me to playalinda beach
with your right hand on my left knee
and the other limp-wristed on the steering wheel, on our way from the bridge
between the highway and the hammock trail, half of me soaring out the sunroof
with my arms spread wide, pelican-like, open palms toward blue topaz,
squinting at a blazed sun
the wind against my breasts,
hissing across my shoulders
cheeks crumble into tugs and tears,
the road was endless for our tires
a rolled-out carpet of tar for our love
the night before was but a blur
you pulling your face away
to the edge of the bed
us bickering into each other
we played like an ol’ Josh White tune coating mr. pirtle’s antique garage
warm
static
full of bass
like someone speaking
close to you
in a summertime pitch
of piedmont blues.