Triangle Park

We spoke French in triangle park
until the pelt of morning burnt into the spine
of day. You led me through verb drills
until our nasal honk, goose-like, blurred
and your cupped palms spun
as though swatting at flies
before your face.

You left me for the beach and I watched you
cross against the growling traffic.
A brazen strut tousled your hair,
until I only knew you by the yellows
and blues of the blanket
That whipped against your shoulder.

I huddled in the Tradewinds, pressing down
flyaway texts, jotting elusive words meaning
to want to need in bleeding rollerball scrawl
upon a graph paper tablet.

I thought of wants and needs and glistening
PABA torsos and legs gritty with sand.