I see him at the coffee pot

Brown eyes measure the room

A smile waits on his lips

I imagine a life with him

Before I know his name

I see him leaning against an oak tree in the church yard

Scowling

Sweating

Glaring

Naked arms protrude from a lambskin vest    

Grimy jeans melt into motorcycle boots

Keys to forgotten locks jangle on his belt

I smell him

His odor fills the space between us

I could turn away

Walk back into Grace Church

Eat my free oatmeal

I could leave with a full belly

Instead I walk toward him and hand him

One

more  

key

  http://twitter.com/LeMorningShow  entertaining

http://twitter.com/Rosiecosy   cheerful

http://twitter.com/cyberbonn  friendly

http://twitter.com/alboss  Seattle’s finest

http://twitter.com/zootcadillac  a man among monkeys

http://twitter.com/CrystalChambers  fashionista

http://twitter.com/jkahane1  multi-lingual

 http://twitter.com/AlicePoet/    new friend

http://twitter.com/jeditigger  good friend

http://twitter.com/smashadv  doesn’t know art from poo poo (but I stole this idea from him)

http://twitter.com/jes2go iconic

http://twitter.com/mireyamayor renaissance woman

 http://twitter.com/KFZuzulo writer buddy

http://twitter.com/lilyofoz poet

http://twitter.com/aliholden neighbor

http://twitter.com/BlokesLib sexy

http://twitter.com/davidhenderson genius

And I know him as Zoot

image by zoot

A complex man drawn in 140 characters

He blooms, flourishes, embellishes, offends

The words he sows rebuffed by those who

Trade in trivia, minutia and niceties

I know him as Zoot

He knows himself.

Constrained by a world that worships the average

He lashes out, flailing against unseen opponents    

Imprisoned in their own dull sameness

I stumble upon the cold sugary delight in  Trastevere

And know that one taste will not quell my desire

I stand before the Basilica Di Santa Maria 

My gelato disappears before it is consumed by  hungry lips

Melted by the warmth of a Roman summer

And again

Overlooking the harbor of that tiny Tuscan fishing village

That kisses the Tyrrhenian Sea

Finding only two geleterias in Porto Ercole

We chose the one without whipped cream

“We must have whipped cream with our gelato” I declare

And go off with the intent but not the language  

I pantomime and whoosh and came back with the prize I seek

And a new word:  panna

Much later, flying north out of Fiumicino

Over the Tyrrhenian Sea

I peer out my window searching for my trombolo 

I see it

Clinging to the coastline by three thin stalks

I close my eyes and dream of gelato

It smells

Of dead crabs, mire and diesel fuel

It reveals

Barnacles and beer cans

It reminds me

Of water moccasins and banana sandwiches

It sounds like

Squish, splatter, sluice, and

Bare feet freeing themselves from muck

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 After reading Homage to Calvin Spotswood by Kate Daniels

Because I couldn’t be the daughter they wanted

The one they should have had

The one that liked the smell of collards cooking,

Fatback frying

The sound of billiard balls banging

Because I liked to read, to pray, to ponder

Because I liked to play in my good clothes

Because of was tired of having people drop me off at the corner so they wouldn’t see where I lived

Because I was tired of watching my mama slowly dying over her ironing board

Because my daddy never talked to me

When he almost asked me

I ran away with him.