[return to Contents Page]

Dru Philippou

". . . are powerless over others—

that he loves to go free       is light on his bicycle       enjoying the ocean and sky       the island at noon
tasting the leavened bread and Camembert cheese       as he speeds past the hibiscus       a cloud shadow
an old fisherman named Frank       and onto a wild open trail       in this Santa Ana wind       

his way
Journey to paradise
within sight

that our lives had become unmanageable."

she's in his garden watering the crab-apple tree and Maximilian sunflowers       inside the house       she runs her finger along the dusty photograph of the Bilbao Museum occupying the length of a south wall above the tilt of his drawing board       then listens for the familiar sounds: the metallic buttons of his blue jeans clinking randomly in the dryer       "Never Let Me Go," by Bill Evans       and those long sighs to Mother over the phone
but now in the glow of the fading amber light everything leans towards his meticulous turning of each page of the New Yorker       and her pounding heart

trapped in a sea
of obsessions
call to a sponsor