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Jan 2016
I wanna fall in love with someone who plays
the blues like floss between his toes
baked under the sun, steps away from a lake
we called a sea anyway.  We sat

their four days, the sand packed under
our breathing vertebrate
the sun never set; only dripped, dipped
its golden fingertips into pleased, green ripples.

He'd watch with me, his rolled up jeans,
pressed pink cheeks blowing against
that harmonica, fingers white, pressed.
I rest on my hands on wet sand, tiny grains

of sunny diamonds.  I sang out
to the redheaded halcyon --
to his slender beak:
*pierce my gentle heart!
S K Garcia
Written by
S K Garcia  Chicago
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