James Mclain | + Follow Poet |
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Does This Lady Love Her Mister

Because of it, we laughed as grass is green—there is she not common.
Realizing how it is I became, such implied in her with favor.
--
And, being left off distant of, but near to her, I thus became—
whose teeth, white, flashed: the sun as she was now to smile and show them.
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I was drawn inside by her sweet, minty breath she made as was it.
I inhaled with each profound look; I rediscovered.
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Lost, then finally found within dark caves of sound, so deep
and smooth, so rich and throaty, singing music all the time—
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never ravaged but by scotch and time and filtered cigarettes.
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Though detached, always above, I look again there down below.
Such is an undulation, a visitation—
invisible muscles moving up and down.
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A young woman on the beach, she hurries past us, saying,
drawing briefly it aside: a red and white bandana.
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“Made,” she said, “in China.”
Hot, a sweating mask, I looked far out beyond it.
Bronzed her body was. I think of her with violet posies,
confusing she with her.
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“Does your Lady and the Mister wish to take it to the ocean?
Does the Lady and the Mister wish to wash it lightly off?”
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One day, in time, each grain of sand and foam, she did—politely—ask.
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I decided that, if it comes when I, and if I must,
that this next verbal jolt—when it hit—could fly a kite without a tail.
Certain repercussions of those acute remarks left me thinking:
as hearts are won, then thoughts be lost.
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She with her, and I—this afternoon—could still maybe be; the sun is hot.
--
I concentrated on both. By my seat a well of deep emotions.
With a careful, deeper why, I trust my mind to find it wanders.
Kept thus safe in time, inside I've grown to know and ponder as to why.
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Wistful—he for she, her much, and subtle—
this my love could be her double.
Once was I of kind, like mind—
a person drifts at times so far away.
--
When life, like that, just walks away, or simply floats right past us,
then washed amongst the rocks and foam, the wind—it blows away.
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