For One Shot Wednesday
I first saw you pouting
in the magazine I hid in my bedroom
when I was twelve--
the year I resolved that breasts
were the coolest thing since Elvis Presley
I was looking for the secret in your eyes
but they never revealed it...
and I still don't know who you are
I was eighteen
a bit of a late bloomer
you already a faded rose
when you gave me that first driving lesson
in the front seat of my Chevy--
and though you'd been around the block
you failed to warn me that a steering wheel
lodged in one's butt crack on a deserted Missouri backroad
makes for an unsteady ride
Seventeen summers were yours
and I'd chalked up twenty-two
on the night of our first cautious caress
all the perfumed blossoms and you
sending me into sensory overload
I was getting good in the clinches
and there in your backyard you pleaded with me
to climb through your bedroom window
and go for the gusto
play it fast and loose while your parents--
too square to have a clue--
were zonked out down the hall
Discretion proved the better part of valor
until the night at Fat Bruce's house
where we made up for lost time--
sleepless in Cedar Rapids--
while he scoured the city for belladonna
or nutmeg
or anything that might give him some altitude
You left me high and dry in Key West
when you hit the road with my friend...
and I still don't know who you are
I met you again in the summer
in Panama
where you told me I must have had some upbringing
because I held my fork continental style
not realizing I was left-handed
and it just seemed a more natural way to maneuver
Back at the hotel we put the moves on each other--
every afternoon the rains came
and we followed suit
I screwed
my companions
and we headed north in your green Beetle
When we had used up all of Latin America
you dumped me at the Newport Beach bus station
with fifty bucks left in my pocket
trying to explain how you didn't like goodbyes...
and I still don't know who you are
Once I stole you away from my buddy
who had spent one night with you
and showed up at your room the next morning
to find us tangled among the sheets
You said you'd once worked as a courier
for certain underworld concerns
and the aura of intrigue
clung to you like cobweb
Trying to clear customs
from a three day sojourn to Curacao
we were invited into the back room
for an intimate inspection of our belongings...
and I still don't know who you are
One winter you took the elevator
up to the radio station in Penthouse One
I slapped on the long version of
"In--A-Gadda-Da-Vida"
and stood monitoring its progress
through the plate glass window
as you got into the groove
and did what you said you'd do over the phone--
on your knees there on the roof garden
the lights of San Juan shimmering around us
When your girlfriend came outside
I flinched
you didn't miss a beat...
and I still don't know who you are
I've seen you on the streets of
LA
New York
London
and Paris
brushing by me as you head in the opposite direction
and I study your face for the answer
You've dogged my tracks
and I've hounded your trail
through so many lifetimes
I've lost count
and still you return--
to a poetry gathering
where you try to be inconspicuous
but I know that you're here
for when I glanced around the room
our eyes locked for just a moment
then you looked away...
YOU know who you are
