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