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I was walking home—the long way.

You were heading for your car after work,
cool and slow, under a hood on a nice,
sunny fall day—

when I caught you.

We had never met, I asked to pass on
the left, and you were startled.

I asked, “Did I scare you?” and you
kind of said “yes,” then I explored
why you’d be afraid in broad daylight
in the middle of the sidewalk.

She was a sharer; not tall, skinny, dark
hair under the hood, saying what she
most feared was a dog attack around here…

So there I was stopped with the stranger
under the hood by her dusty sedan, cued
to share my martial arts tips—especially
against attacking dogs.

She was a sharer; also a willing listener.

“Willing” being one of the sexiest character
traits of any female I know—

She paused to give me her ears, and I told
the dark art of killing attacking dogs;
knowledge to know and hopefully never use,
as most martial artistry strives to be.

“With Dobermans you do X…” and she
nodded, interested and cute.

“And with all other dogs you do Y.”

I caught my breath, as “Y” is pretty gross
on a full stomach, but she was fine and
grateful for the tip.

I told her about Okinawan Karate’s first
principle, gan, or “eyesight”—as in keep
your eyes on everything and everyone, sight
our first defense against trouble.

Martial Arts is the artform of keeping the peace;
what police claim to do as they siren and
chopper around making noise, shooting guns.

I failed to mention that to Mari, the girl, my
new friend, but again she was willing to converse
on and on with me, so sexy and cute I could
hardly stand.

Not in a hurry, willing, listening, passionate with
stories to rival my stories and accepting of
my business card promising poetry, even
an explicit one or two.

She was okay with that, more talk revealing
she had a boyfriend—something I had to know
before proposing marriage or some dumb thing!

I hugged her three times before we parted.  Each
time she hugged back.  A skinny gal with heart
and love of love—her form filled my body and
time freezes to remind us that on any given day,
you might share a desert island with another soul.

If only for a few moments, they and you are all that
matter.  No boyfriends or wives are there.

Some have the religion or constitution to save
all they have for that loved one at home.

Things really are “what they are,” and the less
we judge them the better.  One could cast a stone,
but sin, truth and need plagues and blesses
us all into hugging strangers with all our heart
sometimes,

Me with room to think of her all night.

Her, with a “boyfriend,” as expressed—but
did she think of me too?

Can chemistry run only one way?

On that desert island, we could make amazing
love together.

As I pray for rain, the sun shines on a sore toe
forbidding an adventure to try and see her again.

Life is the humble pie we eat on the way
to saving the rain forests of the world in our den.

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