She always pictured
She could perfect him.
Get him to wear black leather shoes.
Get him to wear a wide shiny tie.
Get him to wear a flash suit.
Get him to shave off that bum-fluff of a beard.
Then again, there he was-
Surfboard in arm
With that silly smirk
Crumpled wetsuit, leathered skin.
The freak bike accident changed all.
As he lay in his wooden box
She wryly smiled at the irony of the suit.
She struggled as she configured the shot
In her head:
How she wished
She could smell his bare feet
The sweat of his flesh
Feel the bristle of his young beard.
How she wished she could
Hear him scoff at all the bullshit-
Hear once again his sorry-assed ideas.
Hear his wild exhortations
Hear him whisper gently into her ear,
‘What’s with the fucken tie?’