he could tolerate

for a furtive and exciting assignation,

a vacation from himself perhaps

when he relaxes into a new identity,

not knowing who is he and who is she,

only knowing me,

as I sit astride him,

as he lies face down, moaning into his pillow,

“What a man. You are so powerful.

And sensitive.”

I know I should give up

and accept the fact that he is homosexual,

so clinical, but accurate,

so unromantic

and lacking the thrust of poetry.

Love is just love,

until it’s physical,

then often it turns cynical and violent.

I’m better off without that loss of dignity.

But maybe I “should” drink that poison once again

and on the brink of dying

send my spirit flying into him,

but ooh la la I mustn’t forget we’re friends,

not lovers, not enemies,

just in between extremes,

safe in our dangerous dreams.

FIFTY-THREE

“I never thought I’d end up a hard blonde,” I said,

“Did you?”

My friend, Sue, looked at me, just looked,

then went to pee

and I settled down to think about it,

but first, I ordered another round.

“Bartender, I mean Brad,” I yelled,

over the hell-raising boys

bellied up at the bar, “Fill ’er up.”

This round’s on Sue, who’s back

from the restroom now,

hair combed and sprayed

and there’s a chalky place under her left eye,

where she put too much concealer,

but I’m too depressed to tell her about it

and I just lick salt from my lips

and knock back another shot of tequilla.

“That shit’ll kill you,” says Sue,

as she downs another scotch on rocks.

Scotch on cocks, I call it,

but she doesn’t get it and I let it slide.

She’s my best friend now and then

when I’m beside myself

and about to do something terrible.

She can always tell

and says, let’s get the hell out of town,

which means let’s go down to the Shamrock Bar,

where the drinks keep coming

like I used to,

before the change got through with me.

Now I have to fantasize

like nobody’s business

just to get set and go.

Ask my last boyfriend, that no good sonofabitch,

who ditched me for a younger, dumber version

of guess who?

Boy is he in for a surprise

once her eggs dry up

and she starts to look a little tired about the eyes,

her hair starts thinning

and when men look past her

as if she isn’t there.

I’m here, though, like an itch

that won’t go away

and here I’ll stay

on a stool at the end of the bar,

where I can see everybody who comes in,

hoping one of them will take me

down memory lane and leave me there.

Twenty-three and raring to see what’s next,

as I sit on some guy’s face,

but every hair in place,

as I yell my own name,

because I love myself too much

to ever love anyone else.

But that’ll never happen now.