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Poem
Tell her you saw me ...

Tell her I was out on the bluff at the Cape
during a gale, much too close to the rocks.
Tell her the surf was tormenting the ledges,
its roar far too loud for me to hear you call,
the salt-spray too heavy to see you waving,
but nonetheless I turned and looked at you,
and then ... I was gone.

Tell her you saw me ...

You were in the highlands of Rwanda in June,
there to do your outreach work for "the cause".
You had stepped into a clearing on a hill crest,
and you glanced across the valley's expanse
just in time to see me slip into the jungle mist.
You were certain I had waved my Akubra at you,
the way I used to across the quad at Cambridge,
and then ... I was gone.

Tell her you saw me ...

You were on a mission for the Megalakes Project,
camping with a British-supplied band of Bedouin.
It was a perfect Moroccan evening, save for chill.
You had finished supper and were smoking with
the tribal leaders in the sheikh's tent, conversing,
a Jeep went past and you glanced up just in time
to see me ride by with an envoy ... I smiled at you,
and then ... I was gone.

Tell her you saw me ...

You were servicing sonar buoys for the U.S. Navy
in the South Pacific, stationed in Tutuila, Samoa,
but were enjoying a long weekend with friends,
scuba diving and spear-fishing along the reef ...
you poked your head above water to check on
your mates, and an outrigger went past just off
the breakwater, me and two Polynesian women.
I yelled but you couldn't hear, so you waved at me,
and then ... I was gone.

Tell her you saw me ...

Tell her I was above base camp, at around 18K ...
you were flying up with the company to take pics
of the Khumbu Icefalls, and I was alone, headed up
to Camp One ... I had stopped to take photos of the
glacier myself, and you recognized the scarf I had
wrapped around my outer down suit, as it was the 
same one she had given me at the 'Running of the
Bulls' ... you fired a flare in my direction and I was
just close enough to see your platinum hair through
the copter's bubble - a squall came up as I waved,
and then ... I was gone.

Tell her you saw me ...

Tell her I was at the Essence Festival in Durban, but
I was too far to hear your call and was lost in the crowd.
Tell her you saw me in a gondola in Rio, during Carnaval,
I was going down as you were headed up to Sugarloaf ...
you tried to get my attention, but I was busy talking ...
tell her you saw me in Mexico City at Día de los Muertos,
or tell her I was at Deepavaali in Bangalore, dancing
among the lanterns with an Indian girl ... or buying
street food in Marrakesh at the Jemaa el-Fnaa market ...

Tell her you saw me ...

Tell her you saw me at La Tomatina in Buñol, covered in
tomatoes and laughing ... tell her I was at Mardi Gras,
or the America's Cup, or in the throng at Antigua during
Semana Santa ... tell her I was living it up in Kawasaki
at Kanamara Matsuri, or that you saw me land-diving
on Vanuatu, or free-climbing the Burj Khalifa in Dubai,
or hang-gliding off the Dover Cliffs with an Irish beauty ...
and then ... I was gone.

Tell her you saw me ...

Tell her you saw me ... ANYwhere but here, sad ...
alone ... tell her any lie or story or concoction you
care to dream up, just don't tell her the truth, or the
sorry fact that I have yet to even kiss another pair of
lips, or fit my hand to another's like a glove, or dive
deep the inky substance of another woman's eyes ...
or even care to hear another voice whisper, warm,
my name ...

Tell her anything you wish … that I was cycling,
that I was racing at Le Mans, that I was scaling
the Lamber Glacier, that I was shopping at Zegna
in Milan, that I was fishing … yes, tell her I was
fishing - that’s a lie she’ll swallow hook, line and
sinker. Far better that she not know the horrid truth.
After all, it’s not really a lie ... for fishing is never
just about the fish ...

Never.
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