That Saturday
when they pulled your teeth,
he came at nine,
the smoker, the drinker,
the one with hard black pebbles
for eyes.

Your aim? To ******, to thrill,
the American ******
with daffodil hair.
Out from the rain and into a bar,
dialogue on birthdays
and becoming old.

A speck of seriousness,
your mood, spiked,
each 'conquest' you called it
so fabulous,
always this way;
you knew it would be.

Hand on waist,
you gasped for air
as if drowning in ginger ale,
one kiss,
light as a feather,
the first.

Positive,
it's only physical,
this lovely magnetism
but his burning voice
you clung to
like a thin cigarette.

Past fuzzy lights,
through a summer shower
that fell faster and faster,
just like that, another one gone,
another name
maybe thinking of you.