The boy in him fought to get away,

to travel, to taste, to be with women

of laughter and daring, of new scents,

vibrant colored hair and skin,

troubling eyes


He didn’t know at what island bar,

in what coastal town,

he felt the barb of local women

who saved real love, true laughter

for drinking in stone houses

with their own men

aside windows open to the sea


Even gray bearded ex-pats

in shabby shorts, sand worn sandals,

years in the making and money spent,

would never belong


These days,

wind stroking golden wheat,

he cherishes homestead porches,

solid sleigh beds


With a lover’s hair lapping his cheek,

familiar frog sounds,

untroubled summer nights,

he has come to revere

clapboard homesteads

near farmland ponds