Were you in the garage that summer—
playing rockabilly blues
and rockaway my sorrow honey with a sledgehammer?
you—in that dirty, yellow tank top,
the once white fabric holding in
the bronzed body caked in grit and dust.
And was it her—that lovely skinny thing—
who kissed your neck, her flowing brown hair
falling down around her? (And how she’d look
when it was raining—hands in pockets,
looking up to God for it was spring
and indeed time for resurrection.)
And what about those times when
she threw off all her clothes and danced
naked and wild and howling?
Do you remember how together you’d lie at night
in the back of a pick-up
parked exactly half-way between here and
Pueblo? And what of that one particular instant
when she looked at you
as if she wanted to scream, but she
swallowed and held it in and you swallowed
and asked nothing and so
nothing was said until dawn?
This—this existence of too much sun
and not enough drugs, food, sex
(what was it that was lacking?)—
this existence of the suntanned pauper king
and his 6 string pawn shop guitar,
this existence spent dwelling,
understanding the notion of sharing bodies—
it was not enough for any of us
and so we packed cardboard boxes,
dreamt of other horizons,
and dared to believe that what we didn’t need
we would leave behind.
