The first time I found myself
suddenly, unexpectedly
in possession of a chance in Hell
to make love
with a beautiful girl,
I wrecked it.

Botched completely.

The mood was all wrong,
in my mom's empty apartment
on a pullout sofa.
No music.
Nothing worth drinking.
What was I thinking?

The girl was perfect,
and she moved like my dreams.
But
I was clumsy.
I'd had no practice.
Prophylaxis was a parlour game.
Impossible.
I came a half-dozen times.
Pearlescent rivulets flew everywhere.
But never when I wanted,
nor where, nor how.

We still talk,
years later,
but not about this.
She has her own children now.
I have my own children now.

But if ever I find myself divorced,
*******, I'd like a second chance
to strum the night sky
with the notes of her ecstasy
for the first time.