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His waterline of humor
He floats just above the waterline of humor
I never know if he’s on the level or not,
peers over the edge, on the brink of absurd rumor.
Maybe human mirth has been squeezed out of him
while tilting at windmills; open hostility is his escape
whips out to a froth any sea of affection at his whim.
It is a carefully crafted facade, and he plays it like a master
like a tenantless temple looking for souls to save
or a gypsy staring at his crystal bowl for any disaster.
He could caress with flattery, or bite with harsh insight,
uses silence as his weapon to control dialogue
but turns on a smile a reassuring crescent in the night.
Awareness hums between us - he’s a magician
plucking out a dove of intimacy from his sleeve,
then he’s gone like a shadow running from the sun.
@jjote022924
Copyright ©
Josefina Costales
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