(The line:  I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.)

I Might Wear White

Between Pentecost and Yom Kipper,
I might wear white,
a ice cream suit worthy of Sam Clemens on London's stage
or a frame for Brady's Cross of Gold,
if white were fashionable
enough
for the women not to point and whisper
when I stroll to and fro.

I might don a robe
of unbleached lamb's wool,
held together with hemp rope , ivy vine
or leather belt,
rough spun cloth good enough
until I enter yonder rolls
while the women pray words seldom heard and point heavenward
as I dunk and sputter.

Clothed in white,
I might go to sea in rusty ships or leaky skiffs,
one ear strained to hear
the rapids boil,
the other your babble
of parasols and fashion
as the women on the shore droll on
about when white is right.

Topped with a spinner
trimmed in red and blue,
I might wear a linen suit and wide bow tie
to picnic
on the grassy knoll -
peaches, cream and lobster claws consumed
as the women in the park hawk lemon ice
and French postcards to read when it is dark.

I shall wear white flannel trousers,
rolled to my knees and stroll among the surf
peach pits tossed to crabs,
crosses traded for sanded dollars,
parasols adrift on the wind,
postcards wrapped in cellophane, safely tucked away
to show the women while they scrub grass stains
from my outer garments.

The inner lost when stole
by a painter
in need of rags to clean his brushes.

*

If I looked inside me I might find
a small dog,
the yapping kind, Chinese,
a kitten starved
or parakeet that lost a voice it never knew it had.

A disciple unsure
The Word he has been given
is not the Devil's folly
or he is worthy
of the attention a Word brings.

And they wander the sands
in search of Moses
and water
as they trail
behind Lawrence's abandoned camel.

A lawyer
who sues for innerwear
in hopes
the outer will given freely
without the expense of open court and bribed judges.

And the women
sit and sip their tea,
sit and point and gossip
of you and me
anxious for home and French postcards.

As inside
I walk upon the beach
in unrolled white trousers
wet with surf
and brown with sand and kelp.







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Poets for Peace.  ¡Poemas sí, balas no!