Mindwine, 66

I would rather exercise or rehab my old stereo or paddle a canoe or ride a horse or dive into a forestpool fed by waterfall or, best yet, sip Sapphire tonics with the woman I adore - and she me - in the lowering rays of sunsets rippling on Caribbean seas, than . . .[rat-a-tat-tap alphanumeric fingertips on a dusty crusty keyboard. That's I, a marketing communications writer, and by God I am an ace at it.] But writing is not just business, it is personal. Capisce? I lay my ink happiest at the feet of romance. Just lend me your ears, amore mio, and thence you will sense snow-thawing kisses river-running over curve of neck and swerve of thigh to the site of salvocean. When I can not be a poet, I try being a poem. I open doors for a lady; stand when she rises or enters the room; pull out and push in her chair, or at least make a right gentlemanly show of it; and enlist in her interests. I keep values close, and family closer. I love the arts: literature, museums, plays, music from rock to rap and country to classical, even opera and ballet. No pretensions though. I just as much enjoy wearing old jeans and hiking boots sunk deep in a couch watching screwball comedy in black and white. And no elitism. So I won't use my gifts to alienate, but often to launch wit that unleashes laughter...for to laugh is to live. No delusions of self-importance either. So I'll go instantly humble in sight of natural wonders more beautiful than anything humanity can think of and overvalue. Who are we in the face of cloud-scudded sunsets on fire in the belts of horizons? For the remains of the day, I act like a man, tending to my lot in life for the coming of my ideal woman, the one who could match my all, or exceed it splendidly, or simply appreciate me for who I am. And make laugh.