Is it really abuse if you say you want it?  Is it really love if it does not intrude, and take you over?  Is there still a beach to lay upon, even if the beach is under water? 

I had a dream of torrential rain and flooding, and almost drowning.  There was running, too, and oddly in the middle of it all, changing shoes.  The doorbell woke me.  Must be the cab driver; he comes to come, and then he leaves.  Perfect, really.  But I am so exhausted lately, weak like paralyzed, and more interested in coffee than cock.  The doorbell rings again.  I crawl over to the switch I made to shut the buzzer off.  I choose the coffee. 

I take a piss, and on my way to the kitchen, peek through the slits in closed window blinds.  For all I know it could be UPS delivering a blow-up boy, or some other implement of substitution.  No one can be seen.  Making coffee, I creep about quietly—I'm hiding—and I listen for the intruder's approach outside my apartment door.  Sometimes he gets inside the house, and listens at my door.  Then he knocks, and waits.  And knocks, and waits.  He went on like that for hours once before. 

The coffee's made.  I fill a cup and think, 'Is it really abuse if you say you want it?'  As I open the refrigerator to get the milk, I think about the beach house I'd like to rent this fall.  Then I stop and listen at the inside of my door, and wonder, 'Is he there, listening, too?'  There is only thick silence, and I ask myself, 'Is it really love if it does not intrude, and take you over?'  With cup in hand, I go to check my e-mail. 

Even as I sip, I also am the man who owns the place, standing in warm wind and sun, photographing the beach house he wants to rent.