It is not the walk we love,
not the burn of feet and thighs
or how the back tells us
when it is time to sit, rest,
look around and count the alphabet
in foliage. It is not the calmness
of the cigarette break or the promise
of improved endurance in future
lovemaking, not even the fantasy
of a keg turning into an abdominal
six-pack. No, it is the experience
of sweat on the brow, down
the crease between the shoulderblades.
The feeling of water that emerges
from the flame, salty and sweet
and sexy when licked from the neck.