It started

at the Beach Club, white

sand dusted

the board.  Cube

mystery solved late:

double sixes cleared your home,

I smiled at the blue-

eyed twinkle

over swimmer’s breasts,

firm, even for eighteen:  your

Montclair roots

augmented by strict



surpassed by passion.

Watkins conceded romance.

We never got caught,


wide open to the

night, three beach loungers placed to

shield young love.

Learning the lexicon of

your long legs,

tongue patrol over

muscle terrain, two

weeks of lust,

a few months of letters, then

the fade back

to lives unshared yet

forever enriched.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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