journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
Lost moment
Framed in the kind of gilded slanting sunlight
found in San Franciscan postcards he stands
shirtless, rock steady on naked legs,
caught in a moment of shared laughter.
Some body sculpture has happened here.
Those muscles, that precisely balanced bulk
were made, not gifted. His gift is of youth-downed
skin, bright eyes, good teeth and an open smile.
His is a chest made for post-coital comfort,
for drifted moments on quiet afternoons,
for star gazing on star filled nights, for the
eternal golden moment, sadness filled with joy.
And then, with one move of an index finger
he picks his nose, and the illusion is lost.
John Bailey
Carmarthenshire, August 2003
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