Next Jolt

Floating in colors and caffeine time,

he recalled the sun had beamed one tree years ago, 

his wife's hair lit through leaves

becoming rivers of setting-sun brushing her shoulders, her back. 

The precise moment the sun had pointed to her, glowed her hair, 

all seemed to be for him: 

no one else was out, no one else saw, 

but he did, and he swerved toward her. 

Standing under a Florida oak, her relaxed stance drew him in, 

and he followed as if on a filament-straight line taut to a Pflueger reel.

She laughed,

obliterating the blowing-wind crackling sound of leaf against overhead leaf.

A jolt. A startling jolt, 

like a cup of coffee 

delivered each morning with a smooth arm, delicate fingers, light pink nails. 

He smiled recalling her laugh; 

she strolled back to the kitchen as he sipped the memory,

never wanting it to end, never desiring an empty cup 

as he still enjoyed the jolt.