A Garden In the Sky

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