Under the Weather

Too much sun?
Barefoot in hot sand.
Into the ocean
and out to sleep
and peel.

Paula says she'd like
to go to L. A.,
Carmel’s nice but . . .
He says, Why be late
getting home?

She rubs on salve
to diminish the burn.
She says, We should go,
Jim and Pam
are probably gone.

She’s deep in Karamazov,
with Anna Karenina
to go. Summer
will lapse
fast.

They drive
back to The City,
Bobby likes to call it . . .
Claude gave him names
he finds in The Book.

None are home.
Half a dozen
mysteries unsolved:
Shake the tree,
no apples fall.

He marvels:
Paula is a wonder,
her sheer joy of life . . .
Bobby wishes he were
a magician too.

In Eugene, Paula
says, Let’s find
my cousin.
He’s gone.
Downstairs,

street level,
the "good-morning,
let’s have a drink
to start the day
right" souls

shinny up
to the bar and stay.
Their eyes stay
on Paula.
Bobby nudges her,

Follow me . . .
Casually, they
exit quickly.
From the car they
see a flock

of drunks
clawing the wall,
and around
they peer,
leering.

(15 June, 3 July 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander