poem

Simply

Can you and I always be touching?
I mean, even times when we're
Buried in the couch and
Reading separate books, totally engrossed.
Can we remain yet in contact
Somehow, like our legs slowly rubbing
Up against one another's
And our toes can be touching?

And when we sit and smile someday
In green vinyl lawn chairs
At the beach, wearing UV-blocking sunglasses,
Deaf to the monotonous ocean crashing,
Our hands, you know, might start digging
Through the sand and tunnel together,
One last give and we'll break through.
We could be touching, then.
Keep your hand there, OK?

No thought makes me happier
Than sandy fingers clasping in the cool damp.

Mark Haggarty

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