senior writer

Hey,
what's up, Sweet Thing?
You look stunning:
hair grown long
and died
platinum blond,
tight clothes gripping your cold
fair skin,
nails nicely manicured,
face made up so that
I can barely recognize you.
You've grown so much.

People just pass you by on the street, and you never stop to think of what could happen. What if you looked up at the same moment or if you all reached for the same lucky penny on the ground? Could that sketchy man you just passed become infatuated with you and stalk you for life? Scary, but not boring. Could that little old lady ask you to help her with her groceries and then turn out to be a millionaire and leave you her entire fortune as thanks for your one kind deed?
It’s strange to think that people want to remain isolated, heads to the ground looking for stray coins when the real treasures are behind the faces above.
I spent this morning on North Beach in Burlington. It’s kind of a smelly place, with the occasional hobo camping out, no romantic landscape to be sure, but if you keep your eyes out on the water and concentrate on the wind, you can pretend well enough. There were only a few others there since it was so early and too cool to swim.

I made sure to wear my red flowy skirt so it would fly in the wind as I waded half up to my knees in the water, and I could pretend I was from a Victorian novel. Later I would lean against one of those beautiful knotted trees and look pensive and turmoiled.

Before I get to the tree part, though, I’ll tell you about the rather magnificent boy there. He himself was leaning on a tree, looking out over the water. I don’t want to guck him up and say he was looking out determinedly, or desperately, or hopefully, because I really couldn’t tell from my distance. All I knew was that he was tall, and much too skinny (almost goofy); his hair was straw colored, and had gone a little wild. He was too freckled to be devastatingly handsome, but “dashing” might do it.