After our first time,

you in the hotel bath, shyly.

Always I imagine you

in water, your body bare,

sleek and glistening.

Or before, when you told me

you had lost a toenail

but painted your toe

with a red dot

to match the rest.

Reflecting clouds and sky,

the water’s surface

is smooth as wet skin.

Cottonwood fluff

floats down like snow

and drifts at my feet,

late spring, but inside

I feel like early winter.

A little part of me

is gone, and no dab of red

could hide the loss.

About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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One Response to Adrift

  1. Brian Carlin says:

    Disparate losses. Presactly how I like it! Nicely done.

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