He Was Perfectly Imperfect
A wasted afternoon of being wonderful messes
April in Sarasota, they pull up
in front of the café, a red Mercedes
two-seater, fifty something, older
than they look, the power of tennis
and good wine. He stands tall, graying
beard clipped tight, shirt tucked in,
$600 shoes picked to look like he
doesn’t give a damn how he looks.
She, tall and lean, yoga legs, white
shorts, top open down the center so
her well preserved cleavage leads
the way. Sun glasses from Italy, this
year’s look rectangles and too big.
Valet guy takes the keys, head down,
and they saunter to their table near
the passing crowds on the sidewalk,
we want to see the people they say,
as they ignore them all and hope
to be seen.
Perfect kids, the perfect job, not
rich they murmur, but we have money,
beach house in the right part of town,
maybe a little sad the year the dog died,
but all so perfect, all so them. They will
die…
