From racing dreamscapes,
Swirled with glitz and feathers,
Dizzying patchwork recollections,
Stitched with designer chemicals,
That deepened the hue of our smiles,
Stylishly arranged,
Like so many accents,
Around the wrought-iron geometry,
Of your home,
To perfect cappuccino mornings,
The lazy creeping brightness,
Of the city as it woke,
On a plane where time,
Was still of tangible essence.
From your rooftop we watched,
Eating scones.
There was an easy,
Any-time-of-day-ness,
To the laugh lines in your face.
Blue hair spiked with glitter,
Wiggly wool socks peeking,
From your flannel pj's,
That relic of a leather coat,
As orange-brown-tan,
As my memories of the seventies.
Shades thrown over that peacock grin,
So that your mouth was as cool as I longed to be.
There was July,
That designer suit,
Myself a mess of crushed velvet,
On the couch,
Cutting lines with your passport.
Sniff and a jingling of keys,
Then off with your briefcase,
To litigate the conflicts of industry.
Not without a wry smile,
Shot over your shoulder,
Too boyish to possibly be contrived,
The reflection in your wire-rimmed specs,
A girl,
much like myself,
We're she not so starry-eyed,
And swooning drunk on your vapor.
You were the essential amalgamation,
Of youth and worldliness,
Lacking only romance.
A marvel how passion
Seemed to ebb and break all around,
Yet never touching you,
Or never touching me through you.
Versed in the ways of inurement,
And whimsy,
I have not been blind until now.
This precedent came on wings,
Neon swift but insidious,
Like the venom in your sting,
Which has leaked into the cavities off my brain,
And there like alginate congealed,
Stamping me with your impression.
Thought is now a slide show exhibit,
Of our days and nights,
Each frame individually,
Carbon printed with your seal.
This is a mockery,
Of the years that I've conquered,
Of the woman I've become ,
Still you remain,
A cover boy,
Posing as the marble etched ideal,
For the centerfold of my very soul.