by John Campbell (Wisconsin)
Source: Just Cruising Through (2004)
A cool Caribbean breeze sweeps white sand across the veranda
at a villa overlooking the rugged rocks bordering the Atlantic.
On my left, a purple profile of Puerto Rico cowers under clouds,
and north, the tiny island of Culebra floats like a gray battle ship.
From my perch on the isles of Vieques I sip hot coffee and watch
a woman fish from a rock the size and shape of Moby Dick
She's lean, muscular and wiry like a sprinter, a soccer player,
a tall, willowy Olympian in short-shorts, long legs and naked feet.
A tattoo of a purple-blue dragon peeks from her undershirt,
white against her tan skin shimmering as she twirls
a fishing line like a lasso glistening in the sun, a cowgirl,
arms akimbo, trying to cut the lead stallion from the herd.
She tosses the line and it sails up and out like a snake in flight,
the weight, then the bait, kiss the turqoise surf and sink deep.
She taps a cigarette from a pack, cups her hand and lights up
with the skill of a seaman on deck with the wind in her face.
Her smoke drifts upward, I inhale her breath, its tobacco aroma.
Who are you woman, where do you live, with whom do you sleep?
Perhaps, we could meet between cinco y siete behind the stacks
in the library, or in a booth behnd palms at Fat Jack's Cafe?
Motionless, she watches the water, a bucket her only companion
I want to climb down to those rocks, ask what she's using for bait,
ask what fish she's caught, would she welcome a man's company?
But the surf drowns all sound, except a voice that shatters my spell,
Dad! Breakfast is ready!
--------------------
Every Six Months
by John Campbell
Source: Just Cruising Through (2004)
Cindy, a green-eyed natural blonde,
a buxom beauty, accompanies me
to a tiny room, her private cubical.
Her fee has gone up twenty bucks,
but what the hell, it's not that often.
With a pro you get what you pay for,
I figure, just twice a year, get the best.
She makes idle chit-chat, tells me
about her husband's poor health,
how her first husband died early, too.
I lay back, relax in a prone position,
feel her soft bosom press my sleeve,
laser-like eyes ready my lusty thoughts.
I quiver, our lips inches apart, eye to eye,
her breasts billow with each breath.
How do you want me to do it? she asks.
Mellow, I say, make it easy on yourself,
your gentle hands know what to do,
I never tell an artist what to paint,
or a choreographer how to dance.
then, let's do it under water, she says,
I find that's easier on my wrists..so,
I don dark glasses, open my mouth
in which she pokes a prophylactic
probe and begins to clean my teeth.
------------------
Copyright (c) 2005 belongs to John Campbell.
Available in print edition.
--------------------
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John Campbell lives in Brookfield, Wisconsin, with his wife, Lois. Although considered a technical writer by editors who look to him for non-fiction articles on business and manufacturing related subjects. Some of his poems are published in annual issues of the Wisconsin Poet's Calendar, The Clark Street Review, Free-Verse and Alt-Lit.
Just Cruising Through is a chapbook published by The Penny-Pinching Press located in Brookfield, Wisconsin.
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