AT THE CLOYING HIPPODROME
When we were intimate, way back then. You
held your five feet six girl's height quite nicely,
Blondie. I laughed at all your charades; hand-
puppet movements half in the dark and half
in light. We made contact beneath deep, broad
covers. Covering warmth, and mirth, and love.
I pretended at sleep, you came again and again.
It was like that - even in parting. I don't ever
know where all the time went but, if I'd been
able to, I surely would have gathered it up, all
as one, and kept it in a bowl - with a lid to keep
it in - and played it over and over and over again.
I looked for you in the lobby; yes, yes, that was
you again, knitting something, cross-hatched and
weird, with needles and your back to the wall. It
wasn't a pure salvation, yet I knew and loved it all.
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