Washboard Belly

I would bet my infinite collection of bobby pins
that you were entirely unaware
of how unsightly I felt

In that moment

all wet
like a summer hound
dunkin’ her tired tail in Towne Lake
gnawing on a shredded tennis ball
drool suspended in real-time from
the trenches of her mouth

the moment could have been –
should have been erotic,
immortal
defining or season shifting

but it was blundering.

for me, anyways.

you failed me with your punctuality
I failed you with my procrastination

the hand-held Scrubber 3000
massaging shower head failed me


I had hoped it would baptize me,
sear away the aches of my four-day
fish-gutting extravaganza
or …”work”

what a word, “work”
a lonely syllable loaded with
lower-back pain
and individually folded one-dollar bills.
work.

my slippery toes nervously
slithered over the hurdles of your eyes
you were hiding – sort of-
such bravado eminating from the corner of my room

I was jealous of your role.
the innocuous voyeur,
the collector of details.
the pondering master sitting patiently
at the river’s edge – leash in hand-
while his hound splashed her paws
through the murk of holy water

we’re not always poised enough
to surrender to the moment
if anyone taught me that cracked-concrete truth,
it was you

we’re not always fortified enough
to feel as beautiful as we’re expected to be
if ever I knew that,
I knew that with you

I knew that the stubble on my legs
would never define that moment,
the opposite of washboard belly
poking through my towel
would never define the moment

but that’s where I chose to needle point
my focus

so I wouldn’t be faced with the questions
of why the rain pounding on the windshield
wasn’t enough

why the warm hum of the ford motor in the driveway
wasn’t enough
why the wicked marching of our hearts
toward salvation in the form of sloppy kisses
beneath the ease of the eastside porch lights
was never enough

I guess that’s the way it goes.
if only I were programmed to be compatible
with your operating system

if only my footsteps could dance
on the red carpet you rolled in front of me

if only the idea of me that you stitched together
with poems and punches and semi-permanent face paint
was enough
to unleash the promise of what could be
into the raw and fleeting moment of now