Waves of Love

 
Shoeless, maybe,
with only cotton in his pockets,
a rowdy toenail hanging
awkwardly from out of a sandal
once worn
by his late uncle,
he slides headlong
into the tide as dusk fades
in slants across his bookish
ass, now damp with sand
from the Atlantis breakers.

You study his determined grin as he
mounts his sled and
gasps for fresh breath, pounding
at the current, his mouth
washed with salt, his bulbous
nose thrashed in the cutting sea,
as you wait and watch
curling your toes into the sand,
throbbing on the inside,
ready to burst from
the roll-and-tumble
gripping your belly and heart,
riding hard on the wave of love.