It May Be Too Late

The paddle is over.

Pablo has hooked up with the short Marilyn. She has removed her blonde wig.

Her hair is blonde underneath. Her swimsuit is translucent.

He invites her to go with him down the coast surfing.

She agrees, because she loves surfing.

And she likes him. He has made a cool poem:

Not for you or I Marilyn
the way of the cuttlefish,
I have not the specialised tentacles
to insert sperm sacs into an opening
near to your mouth,
nor the patience to watch you lay eggs
a few hours later,
but your golden hair flowing,
your translucent swimsuit,
the blue ring you float in,
encirled, undulating,
make me desirous
of a maritime connection.

He made it last year for a different Marilyn. But she does not know.

Another Marilyn has found Arthur under the jetty.

Hi, says the other Marilyn. Did you see us? We waved and shouted Yoo hoo!

No, says Arthur. I was thinking.

What about? asks the other Marilyn.

A tunnel to nowhere, says Arthur.

Like under the jetty? says the other Marilyn. Yes I see. But why do you look so morose? Relationship problems?

There's this Middle Tang poet, says Arthur. He wants to go camping. But I don't. He keeps following me so I've agreed to play Costa in Candide's Garden to obtain a disguise.

That sounds over complicated, says the other Marilyn. Why don't you tell the guy you don't want to go camping?

Told him, says Arthur. But he believes we've got a mystic connection.

Sweezus appears. He sits down beside Arthur and the other Marilyn.

I ought to go back and help the boss, says Sweezus. I won't get paid otherwise.

Go on then, says Arthur. Remind them I need my black wig and beard as soon as possible.

Sure will, says Sweezus.

He gets up and turns, in time to see a white haired Chinese man duck behind a crustacean encrusted jetty pile.

But it maybe too late, mutters Sweezus.