Guy

Two minutes past twilight
he re-returns from the
outer reaches of the
upper peninsula
of the windward shore
of the lower river valley
of the repositioned
Southwest New Hebrides.
He collapses deliciously
with a half smile
showing no teeth,
spiky hair,
a new tattoo,
and wrinkled pajama bottoms
stuffed deep into a
navy-colored knapsack.
“Hey,” he invites, and,
with no effort on my part,
he ends up with
a beer in one hand
and in the other
stories from his latest
venture to Guatemala.
“The girls there are something else.”
Entirely.
In totality.
Most absolutely.

Nearish dawn,
as he sips on his twelfth
and finishes his description
of a late winter sunset
over the Cuchumatanes,
he looks at me,
disconcertingly,
in the eyes.
“It’s a big world you don’t know little girl.
A big big world.”
Like I was raising wolves
out of my houseboat
and my only
romantic encounters
were sewing shadows
onto the soles of
sarcastic young sirs.
“Yeah,” I concede.

He laughs quietly
like it is just
a particular way
he has of breathing.
I can see his teeth briefly
and the breath escapes.
I wander a bit more
into my misgivings.
He stretches luxuriously
and resumes his latest tale.
I close my eyes and listen
as Saint Anthony
shivers slightly.