Maybe it was
Procol's Vestal Virgins
reminding me of him, away in Vietnam
tossing the dice of survival,
or my friend sprawled across his suicide bed--
casualty of a very different sort of war.
Maybe it was the way your eyes
traveled inside when you comforted me,
that led me to your bed.
But your children were tucked
into your wallet and I wore a promise ring.
We chose to stop.
Maybe love is the memory
of one perfect recycling moment,
riding piggyback on the here and now,
or the way I again feel you inside me
when stars sear my windows
and a bird call slashes the night.
Titanic
Layla, one
legged hooker
watches Titanic again,
cuts to the scene
when Leo shows Kate
her Paris twin.
She figures it's better
to be drawn by a gonna die
guy in an iceberg-doomed ship
than live in Belle Glade,
dustbowl of mid Florida.
Poverty Central. HIV rampant.
Pit stop for hundreds
of black-eyed migrant workers
backs bent like wishbones
hands rough as emery boards.
Smoke from burnt cane
drifts through her open window.
A truckload of migrants roars past.
She's lucky to get two tricks
a night, wishes she could marry,
move near the sea in West Palm
or Delray, but no man wants
a 'death till we part' one legged hooker
to ride into sweaty nights.
She hits the back button again,
sips lemonade, dreams she's floating
out over that Titanic ocean,
slippers tumbling
from two perfect feet.
