Better Than Starbucks!

The Dog Across The Street is Dying

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I know this by the sound of her bay.

A once deep courageous hunt

Has turned to a soft sound of searching still.

Relentless tracking, 

Even at the end of things.

The mysterious trails 

Into and out

Of this world.

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Rebecca Villineau

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Wild swimming

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The first time I swam in the wild

We went to a lake in the moors.

Tadpoles skimmed the water’s edge,

Lapping up the last of the sun’s warmth.

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You waded in, laughing,

Feet sprinkling us as they went

“Come on in!”

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“But the tadpoles…”

 

In the end I followed your lead:

Dodged around the little black blobs,

Sucked up the chill with hot flesh.

 

“The fish are tickling my toes!”

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We soon ran out of words.

The sunset paled

A pink and orange ending

As we shivered, huddled in a blanket

Reluctant to move again.

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Zion Lights

 

 

          Dancing In The Kitchen

          (sixty years together still...)

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They dance in the kitchen

like movie stars from 1939

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With her eyes closed,

she imagines herself to be this man's siren

all heady scents, fiery hair, and throaty whispers

she could be a star of the silver screen

alabaster  wrists and swan neck

flashing emeralds and rubies

the whisper of her caresses

delivered by hands in long satin gloves

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With his eyes shut

he could be the UPS man

twenty five years old

in summer shorts

flashing a devil of a smile

his lips deliver a commanding brush 

of sea-deep kisses

that rock her from

her toes to her cerebellum

and back again...

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There is music

 a solo saxophone 

drifting in through the open windows

soul-stirring on a cool and scented breeze

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Icy cocktails are produced

as smooth as slipping skin

he removes her gloves

allowing her fingers to

graze the rim of her frosted glass

pluck a briny glistening olive

and

place it between his teeth...

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It's a shabby room

scuffed up floors

a patched screen door and

counter-tops in avocado green

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He washes... she dries

that's the way it's always been

sweet tea and ice cold beer

to toast another perfect sunset

as if, he had arranged it all

just for her pleasure

his face crinkles 

with that funny lopsided smile

 she knows so well

​

He fiddles with an old black radio

slow, sweet jazz fills the kitchen

spilling into every corner

crossing  the room

he takes her hand

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Sixty years of Saturday nights

still dancing in the kitchen

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Jill Sharon Kimmelman