A Garden In The Sky—by Michael Anthony Butler
I positioned myself by the pool
at some hip-posh happening hotel
on the sultry Sunset Strip in L.A.
The adolescent afternoon is hot and
fussy. My lover draws closer
With drinks and lays down lightly
next to me on her soft sunlit towel.
I notice she’s wearing the arousing
black bikini I bought her in Hawaii
on our honeymoon. She is the image of
cloud nine. I take a long sip of the crisp
clean contents in my tall glass. Finally,
I find some tranquility in my sun-drenched
darkened skin. Without warning, cocktails
keep coming in perspiring glasses with pretty
pink straws, greeting our inebriated fingertips
with elated ecstasy. We tap our twelve dollar
gin and tonics like cymbals and wink
at each other with a dignified pretentiousness.
We admire Adam and Eve stationed in front of us
Slurping on apple martinis served from serpents.
Their temptation tosses them both in the dark blue
pool of fruitless knowledge—SPLASH!!!
Dewdrops of clear blue fly from the pool
cooled by a California breeze unwearyingly
land like bombs, on my women’s chest
causing obvious bumps on her bountiful breasts.
Thus, bringing a bashful smile to her bright
burgundy face as she scurries to cover up.
The smell of booze and hedonism
hang heavy in the mature afternoon air.
I start working on “the poem”.
The poem that will finally make me
illustrious and interesting to the inhabitants
of this world. This is the poem that will make me—
Immortal! I look across the glaze of
golden bodies and notice my favorite
TV star gliding on by, we share a glance
and cock our heads back like pistols,
as if we were old fraternity brothers.
People begin to study me with intent and
purpose, wondering what character I play
on the show. I squeeze a lime into
(what should be) my last gin and tonic.
The sour acid burns and stings the hangnail
I’ve created by chewing on my thumb
thinking of what words to alliterate next.
I become stuck, and stare at the mole
perfectly placed on my wife’s neck,
a tiny imperfection that makes her the
perfect person that she is.
The afternoon has finally passed away
giving life to an elegant evening.
My senses have never been so
creative and carefree. I feel a kind,
peaceful squeeze just above my knee
awakening me from a honey-sweet
haze. I hear her say, “Let’s go upstairs…”
And why not?
I just finished my poem.
For the contest sponsored by the Rambling Poet~~
A Rambling Poet: A Fragmented Dream
Category: The Dream of Self