I pick up the picture postcard of the harbor down the road from your spa,
And I curse my calloused fingers as I feel the little bumps on the back
Before turning it over. The spray of a much rougher sea than it shows
Would be needed to texture the paper like this. And my heart and mind race,
h-lub-dub, h-lub-dub, gaining speed, h-lub-dub, away from me, toward you.
And I imagine you, the pretty young tourist,
Standing at the beach, on a ship's deck, or up in the lighthouse,
Just mesmerized by a vision of Adonis,
Worshipping the idea of him with verses like Neruda's,
Tempted to tempt fate in your crisp white shorts like the lady in that poem.
And I imagine me, a prying old vicar,
Witnessing the quiet summertime spectacle from a safe distance,
Too timorous to get any closer,
Knowing that you may be set adrift for years if I fail to,
Fighting the memory of being pulled under by your predecessors.
But I'm in no position to drag entranced watchers to safety, I say to myself.
I am just as likely to cause you to dash toward the siren, I rationalize.
So I look away, try not to think of the corpses I've seen in my time,
And I pray – Lord, have mercy!
– that the sea will return you to shore,
Where I may prove useful by rendering first aid or arranging the wake.
And that's when I realize you and I are quite alike after all.
Enraptured by the beauty before us, we'd gladly give our lives to preserve it.
You, watching him, and I, watching you watching him. And I wonder:
Is someone watching me watching you, et cetera and, thus, ad infinitum?
How many unrequited secret lovers dread the moment when the Fates will set them free?