many other secrets raining down

we wandered the quay near the sponge docks
intent on getting to know
one another. past any visible sparking
from the fire of tequila, beyond the mocha
moment in tiramisu's first taste or the small
kiss in front of mama's porch.

the tiki bar was open, separated from steamy
nights by long, translucent plastic cooler strips
pushed aside revealing even more its emptiness
 no barmaid, no clients. she walks
from the rear where there are pipes for sale
serves up a special for two.

against the wall, hardback books line the ledge
between shiney topped tables and a direct link
to google. you mention hope and i ask if you've
seen the painting.  in the alcove beside the entry
an electric tiki torch flutters against windlessness.

i mention a poem i need to write,
to a man who used to be important
in my life, but who left
due to circumstances he couldn't control.
 how he'd love the poem of that manufactured flicker.

"no" you say, "i've never seen it". i google
the painting. "is that a butterfly?"
pointing to the spider on her face
and right then i knew
we could be at the same place
if i just made one small adjustment
and tuned the dial away
from all the ghosts signalling
danger in lines of static from the past.