by M.P. Powers
An aging surfer dressed like he's still
fourteen, shouting in his cellphone.
And I can hear him from all the way under
the coconut palms: "I told you I'd have yer money
on Friday, bro... Read my lips...
FRIDAY!" He clops up the hill in his flip-flops.
Passes a young beauty in a black
bikini. She struts past me, shaking softly her three
silver bracelets as the music pours out
of the reggae bar. She moves
in perfect rhythm with it, and she'll stay in
perfect rhythm, just like that, for years,
through all her love affairs,
drifting along, the music brushing lightly
her hips and her shoulders,
her silky skin, touching her ears, becoming her thoughts
and words and then... well,
and then... going slowly out of season,
like all of us
who live long enough. The music finding someone
else. It's all part
of the process, and when it happens,
it just happens,
and you have to know it's happened,
that's the whole thing. I watch
as she takes the crosswalk, takes
the other side of the street. A few minutes later,
she is gone, and the old surfer
is back, still on his cellphone. A tired old song he is
from a bygone era. "Dude...
Why you gotta bust
my chops? I told you my situation! Work with me,
bro... Work with me..."