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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