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At The Hotel's Hospitality Room, 2
The bloodlines of four or five peoples---
Asian, Amerindian, Caucasian---
mingle in your bloodstream and your beauty.
The words of our or five great poets
mingle comfortably in your mind,
from which all worldly pretense is banished.
Hawaii's scenery suits your soul.
Hawaii's surfaces, safely sighted,
suit your assertive shoelessness
(any time and place you can),
and the delicate glide of
your small, stockinged feet.
You always purchase inexpensive pantyhose---
always tan, fairly sheer, reinforced at the toes,
especially delightful on the sand
of the shore, and in the shallows of the sea.
To your own poet, that old man, whom
the world dismisses as resolutely minor
(and as much for being twice your age and more),
you dedicate your sheer-sheathed, unshod Beauty
to which he dedicates his poetry.
Unnoticed by most, you had not noticed yourself
until his words reflected you to more than just your eyes,
and the first, tentative threads of friendship
began to be woven, rapidly, into love's whole cloth.
