I know I've been accused of being a poet, but I ain't making this stuff up.
I watched them, thinking how two halves make two wholes, then three, mindful of their moments in the sun.
And then I remembered a poem I wrote…
As we walked inside a favorite well lit place,
I noticed them huddled together on bar stools
like vagrants sleeping in long winter alleys,
or teenagers parked on dark summer roads,
or dragonflies joined afloat in spring winds lift.
Their inner arms are somewhat interconnected,
caressing each other's necks and backs while
opposite elbows are pinned to the mahogany bar
for fear they might slip away from each other
through the cracks in the hardwood floor to be
reabsorbed by the aged earth where moments
are measured in millennia and all stories ever told.
They hold chilled pint glasses half-full of idealistic
afterthoughts, like safety lines from a cliff edge.
We order our beers, and I look at you and say,
"Dragonflies fall through the center of the earth
like burnished amber in fading autumn sunsets,"
then I stroke your cheek and kiss your warm lips
and you wonder what they think of, watching us
And now we fall as three, mindful of our presence in the sun.