wandering into the sun room with a small question I find my boys in repose
the acorn, lies across two beanbags as though he had just finished a marathon and collapsed for want of air all legs and arms with a fringe of needs to be cut soon hair affordung his face privacy he glows with youth and promise
my oak, rests sprawled in the old mamasan hairy legs akimbo, one deck shoe on, one half off he has sat on one hand, wedging in between cushions the other dangles off the chair's rim, long fingers hanging his shirt has ridden up to show tanned trim stomach with a surfer's bleached snail trail leading to a darker hairline his mouth slightly open as he dreams his bulldozer dreams his hair long and now slightly thinning curls in the humidity he has not shaved for days and his stubble a dusting of silver and gold his lips are a tad dry, but still so inviting
I turn and leave them in repose my question forgotten