the perfect shell

i watch their backs on foam and glass

as sky meets glazen sand.

ragged edge of cut off jeans

hugs skin so newly tanned.

                                                       so different, their experience,

                                                       a young boy and a man;

                                                       yet closely knit, as two souls walk,

                                                       reflections hand in hand.

a son telling his father,

as father leads the way,

"i hope i find the perfect shell

to help recall this day."

the father knows whatever shell

they pick from this shared sand,

will be forever held as perfect

in his young child's hand.

alexis tapp ©1994







                                   MR. WINCE, A’THINKIN’

                                              Alexis Tapp

The hat blocks the 5 o'clock sun..

Prevents the addition of another line

In the lacy pattern Mr.Wince wears proudly

From his receding hairline to his sagging chin.

His stubborn gaze isn't for anything we can see,

But more for the thousand memories he longs for,

Regrets, or simply can't believe.

Perhaps, when the sun is gone,

He will move inside,

And we will see remnants

Of his soul in the air.




                       Permanent Impression

We stared through plate glass window,

Bemused, with disbelief.

The ashen-haired beauty

Flopped down on her booty

And lowered her red silk brief.

The long-haired man leaned over her rump,

And in his bright light, he took aim,

As the crowd outside wondered:

"What spell is she under?

She never will be quite the same."

The fellow began in earnest.

Undaunted, she beamed at the crowd.

This scene lasted only on hour.

She's a lifetime to show that she's proud

Of the fish that she wears on her fanny,

(so "cute" on a hiney, size two)

I wish I could be there in ten years to see

What she thinks of her little tatoo.

alexis tapp © 1997

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