Bonfire

Light lithe on t-shirted shoulders
you play guitar.
Unstudied manliness.
Notes too gently sliding
under party's transparent laughter
for anyone else to hear.

Beside you for a while
I recall how it felt to crave
what I couldn't have.
Only a boy then
and the space was endless.
I imagine the crowd away
just two men
reclining shyly across red light.
Wanting only to touch
the curve of your side,
thinking no more.
Our minds combining
to heights our bodies could never share
talking of Socrates
or Umberto Eco.

Tonight I dare not look,
straight man.
But lean in slightly
to catch the heat
and your tune.
Delicate fingertip.
Steel string squeak,
like your rasped breath
if I could show you,
if I could get close to you.

LJ gathering; Cloey's party

Glen Allan and the Conestogo River


Friday I drove through rain and heavy traffic to Toronto to see roosterbear and quillon, visiting from Rhode Island, and schillerium. We dined at Zelda's, then met rfmcdpei at O'Grady's for the evening. I had an overnight liaison with djjo before returning home for the Rainbow Chorus's annual general meeting.

Organizational meetings always leave me in a bad humour.

Then came a party I was dreading, because two friends had backed out during the week. It was Cloey's party, and I felt it would be rude for me to back out, too. So I went, expecting not to know anyone. Cloey lives in the heart of Ontario's Amish country with three teenaged children who know her as dad (the kids stayed at their mom's last night). Several friends turned up after all, and the new acquaintances were mostly pleasant.

Apart from one individual who, within 30 seconds of striking up conversation, declared himself single and available. I smiled and nodded politely. Equally pathetic was the drunken city queen who, seeing us seated around a bonfire, squealed, "It looks like a prayer meeting out there."

I'm still an inveterate country guy.

Cloey is building a two-seater airplane in her over-sized garage.