off the highway – Carolyn van Langenberg

‘late afternoon  it’s
not the same as daytime,’ he says.
corseted in jeans, he’s the type,
no sweat, cheery grin,
stack the woodheap for you,
mow your lawn, prune your trees.
alive in sinews yearning
to pulse with flesh
like silken grain of wood
under the warm hand.
river green eyes
blink away from your direct gaze
you’ve seen that brittle hurt
snap dry in one who didn’t make it.
a quick car stops           
wet leaves swipe a ute
hunched figure at the wheel,
cap pulled low, apprehensive,
the compilation of shadows
shift       conceal a dented van.
a sharp laugh cuts the moist
assignation             sweet
place just off the highway
marked with a special someone.
hilarious thuds
lift the men’s wild moment.
is it weather whistling wisdom
to the restless sea?