THE SANCTUARY

My eyes take in the condo
with a quick scan, and while not large,
it isn’t cramped, either. Just the right proportions,
much like her: no wasted space, and lines that flow
in perfect symmetry, like classic art.

The décor is Pottery Barn meets Ikea.
Nothing ornate, but hip and efficient.
Satiny throw pillows sprawl across the couch;
her beige sweater hangs  lazily over the arm of a chair;
a laptop computer corrals the corner of  the coffee table,
an empty water bottle standing guard beside it. Underneath
the dining room table a sleek black cat glares warily at me.

She tells me to make myself comfortable
while she disappears into the bathroom.
I stand in the living room
to take it all in: the laminate floors
with the Indian throw rug dominating
the center of the room; whimsical art
decorating the walls; flip-flops tucked in a corner
next to the front door; a 50 inch flat screen.

This is all her and I am overwhelmed
with a sense of intimacy that we have yet to share.
No nakedness. No sex. No scent of her body.
Yet surveying the interior makes me feel as if
I’ve entered into the most private regions of her being.
Herein lies the nakedness of her psyche closed
to the rest of the world except for the chosen few
allowed to gain admittance.

My fingers skim the fabric of the couch
and I can feel her flawless skin. I inhale the
faint vanilla fragrance of a potpourri candle
and am engulfed by her essence.

And when she reappears in the living room
 I feel a new connection to her, an intimacy
that didn’t exist moments ago.
And when she greets me with a smile,
it is like making love without ever touching

MY FATHER

My father
(age 87)
lays in the hospital bed
his cadaverous demeanor
beneath the white sheets
sketches a portent of the immediate future

His face resembles
so many sunken caricatures
laid to rest
on the silk pillows of forlorn caskets,
death causing the ultimate implosion
as the body caves in on itself
like a Florida sink hole

The eyes open intermittently,
but their milky countenance,
wet and glazed,
like a freshly waxed floor,
are oblivious
and appear fixed on recollections
far removed from the present,
while the figures at bedside
are nothing more
than cloudy shapes in a foggy dream

Stubble on the chalky cheeks
creates a vagrant’s visage,
out of character
for the stolid father/steelworker,
the blue collar ethnic paradigm
from another era’s ethic

What was once robust and profane,
bustling with rude energy
and working class bravado
has been sucked and siphoned
by the cruel joke that is old age,

and like air escaping a leaky tire,
his wilting body has its life force
dribble away a wheeze at a time.

The skin on his arms
hangs like soggy paper mache
ready to dissolve at the slightest touch,
the wan flesh mottled with brown specs.
It is tired flesh, rippled and sagging
and evaporating like cotton candy
in humid summer air,
muscles worn,
their bulk and elasticity
fading like the ancient pictures
 tucked inside the creases
of his battered wallet.

CROSS THE LINE

I want to take you somewhere
                              anywhere
A place to call our own
Just the two of us escaping these boundaries

Maybe it’s Kentucky or Tennessee
or down to the Florida Keys

But wherever I go, I need you
by my side to achieve my one desire,
which is to leave this state and
                             cross the line with you