I find it peculiar being an old man. Being a young man is one thing. Being a man is a little bit of another. But being an old man is indeed peculiar.
I have loved women on occasion, physically & heartfully, but never committed to marrying one. So now I live without that comfort, that company, and actually don’t know that much about it. Consequently, for me now, what is Love?
God, Jehovah, Allah, Krishna is love. Mary, the mother of Jesus, is love. And Jesus, himself, is a man painted with God colors. I pray, usually alone. For me, prayer is a certain thought in a certain direction, sometimes vocalized. I pray that my love for life all around me never dies. When an attractive woman comes along & gives me the time of day ~ this is a special moment ~ a poetic moment ~ when love blooms like a little desert flower ~ like a little miracle from on high.
When I regain consciousness a 2nd time on the Greyhound heading into Phoenix ~ I take a long look at the other secret agent and tell her, “Love is in the air.”
She laughs, being a woman with a good nature. And she says, “What?”
Maybe she wants to hear the quaint news again. I don’t know. I cannot stop myself from continuing the refrain. My hand waves around like an archangel’s wand. And I say, “Love is all around, in this run-a-way bus, in the desert air outside! Look!”
I see in her two big emeralds a quizzical regard toward he whom she’s giving her sacred attention. I believe she thinks I’m crazy. But I believe she might like crazy, my kind of crazy. She glances around in token respect.
What does the fair & desirable secret agent see?
The couple in the seat behind us is buried in a blanket. Two single men further back cannot stop talking enthusiastically in a foreign accent ~ crossing America. Two kids back there are teasing their mom. Or is the big lady their aunt? Upfront older folks have flocked around the driver like he is George Washington, despite the strange plastic cubicle inside which he is confined.
Outside our rolling thunder, the creosote is pretty prominent in these parts. The saguaro cacti is pretty scrawny and occasional. Anything called a mountain is pretty far away. There’s lots of space. Most of it is limitless blue sky.
“What did you say your name is?”
Stray strands of red hair swirl around. She smiles. “I am Ms. Whapp.”
“Would you happen to know what time it is, Ms. Whapp?”
She pulls out her phone. Click. “It’s 3:10. And you can call me by my first name if you can remember it.”
All I can remember is her first name is one long roller-coaster ride…
~ by Rawclyde!