Picnic Thunderstorm

I love the smell of your hair.

It lingers in my peripheral.

You smell like a new born baby.

You are fresh to the world

with your innocent thoughts –

with your childish belief in

everything and nothing at once,

bouncing off the walls

with joy and excitement

and sinking in the tar-pits

of your crushing defeat.

Holiday lollipop.

I will suck your candy eyes for a lifetime

if I can – if the fates are willing.

I restrain my tidal wave nature

to surf in your calm current.

You teach me patience and love

and I lead my unbridled passions

like a beaten colt.

I have buried my lust in the scorching Sahara

and seek no refugee.

I am solvent.

I unglue the joints.

I weather the mortar between the bricks

particle by particle

and participate in the mystic dance –

life –

twisting and wriggling about –

another omniscient fish

with an infinite number of hooks

in my mouth.

I am caught in your charm,

locked to your arm

while we walk down Ninth Avenue

together