Invalidity, anonymity.
We were over at Yaddo
that last sneaky weekend
at the Saratoga B and B, when instead of a kiss
you stiffened up like a redwood,
distancing yourself from my female gaze,
a lost stanza of prose.
You were sorting things out with her
and at the time the bank of pay phones
downstairs was kept busy with my
quarters and returned messages
of how to deal with the subpoena
and the red-headed pregnant divorce
attorney. I had brought tap pants and sexy stockings
but could not whine you into
pouring soap into the bath I had drawn
as you transfixed upon the great
OJ trial as it tore through that Summer
in the States.
Battling for control over the next twenty
years of the us that we were starting to learn
to create like formal poetry. A new couplet,
avoidant of eye contact, distanced from skin,
a closed sphere of safety-walled in security
and bland discussions about the weather,
or what program to watch next. I should have mourned
the love with reason, then.