The hurricane sank the Calypso, but dressed as always in a wetsuit he floated by the wasteland of a dying coral reef with philosophical detachment as to his own survival. The great white, its fish supply lost, tore into a rubberized human.  Adieu M. Cousteau!

Scorched to the bone, Calypso Smith was bound for the compost when the regenerationist intervened. His great love, once unrequited, strove to restore her beauty in a biological sonnet of cells, brain, heart, eyes, & lips designed to smile upon him.

Johnny Mathis upbeat on a nearby radio, & I’m face-down on a beach towel content to doodle me-starring love scenes in my head. I paint them in vibrant color, orchestrate with operatic excess, & spritz with the aroma of hibiscus & hope.

The Harleys strung down the road like sedans, riders in club leathers w/ only grey hair flowing. On a Sunday outing, maybe lunch with a view. It’s no fleeting memory how I once crossed the Alps on a bike pillion, a hellish descent into Italy & snow.