when our fingers touched

the giant Hibiscus
in my pants
and along the shoreline
in a primetime trance
i'm hearing the low ball,
listening to the blues,
following the high tide
to the lying man's shoes.
oh, there he goes again
turning an angry compost pile,
tanning his facial hair,
practicing his practiced smile.
i keep looking for a fortune
but settle for a kitchen sink;
it wasn't the trip others dream of
but it made me think,
sipping my very cold beer,
reading an interesting book;
the white trash was heading curbside
and i just had to look.
she came into my dreams;
i watched her fly;
it rained every day that summer
and we both knew why:
it isn't easy to start a fire
when the wood is wet.
i tried to save the sinking ship
but have no lasting regret:
in a mushroom cloud
i imagined things i'd rather forget.
there were birds eating seed
and a grey squirrel with a nut.
they talked to me in earnest
about living in a rut.
the doors closed and the windows shut:
i sat on a flat rock in a wild creek
with the sun in my eyes;
she laughed as our fingers touched:
it came as no surprise.