I'm thinking of a week
you and I
on a sugar beach
where every thing is sand, or sways, or blue
except you and I
making love on an oceanside lanai
where the only thing we are denied
is a phone call from home or office.

Though you deny it
I'll bet you're beautiful,
did you say 36, or 38,
no matter
and eyes not blue,
nor blood I hear
not arabesque, not a dancer?
Can you cook,
published articles in the "Lancer"?
Nonetheless, I'll bet you're beautiful,
Just my guess.

It will be morning when you read this.
You will be at work,
perhaps drinking your second cup of coffee.
Do you take it with cream, one or two sugars?
Funny to think I don't know,
though I puzzle with these love words
arranged specially for you.

Would that I were the first
to use the phrase "private dancer."
In my thoughts you are arabesque,
a gracefully spinning shadow projected upon my naked walls,
your slender arms and hands, and fingers extended tall
en pointe in the center of my cupped palms
and in my heart, in unison, we are pas de deux.

There is no way of knowing
how many poems written go unread.
Surely many deserved an early death,
but what of the brilliant verse?
Sad to think a single one
would die, with its author, uncaressed.

We are all living
with a deadly disease
that will **** each of us.
Some are host to more than one killer,
engaged in a turtle hare coup de grâce race.
For some us the time we have left is too well known,
For most of us the time we have left is left unknown.