By the Pond

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My momentum coming down the hill caused the toes of my shoes to dig into the dirt. The pond was low and dark; the green algae from summer had disappeared. I could feel him behind me and I could hear the friction of his boots against the moss and stones. He didn’t touch me but we shared a fire that he had built and we drank together and talked. While we were sitting on the bottom of the overturned rowboat he slid next to me and offered me a sip of his whiskey. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I’m thinking of it now…that not 10 feet away a tree stood with our initials carved into its bark and I wonder if what we have between the two of us is like that carving. Something that is out in the open. Something concrete and part of something natural and organic that is real and definite and was created to be worked at to make a mark.

The Bath

Pink soles,
one tiny mole.
Soapy water,
quiet mutter.
Tiled walls,
whispered calls.
Tiny splashes,
private flashes.
Behind a towel,
inner scowl.
Draining flush,
head-rush.
Slapping hair,
completely bare.
Padding feet,
dripping treat.
Empty bed,
muddled head.
Heavy sigh,
night's goodbye.