Oh, she of brown suede boots
(There are so many of them)
Like sacred clouds obscuring quarter moons.
I would have her and her and her,
Like Caliban or a tiger,
Now a lonely worker of miracles.
They wear black miniskirts,
Taunting the hearts of boys—
Alone, desperate, deserted and frayed—
With their Playboy legs.
I must have my third cup of coffee now,
Thinking of the frozen strawberries I shall purchase
From Trader Joe’s for $1.49 plus tax.
I approach one,
At the half-and-half table,
And I am tempted to nudge her,
But I do not,
Sensing from the back of her blue, cashmere sweater
That she is 24 years younger than I.
She, unconscious, places the half-and-half bottle before me,
And I am almost grateful for the drugs
Which prevent me from ascending to shooting stars.
Ah, her face competes with last night’s moon,
And I am soon to write like Alcman.
I consume her profile
In combat with mortal sin.
I would return the half and half to her redundantly,
But she would not understand,
So I content myself.
I, forlorn and defeated, have loved yet again.