One slept in my bed but never touched me.

This was my choice.

One drew a spiral on the envelopes of all his letters.

Translation: Your back door is mine alone.

One lived with a woman.

One lived alone but refused to let me see where he lived.

Like a serial killer with something to hide.

One liked to whack me with his dong like a cop’s baton.

He had issues.

One liked to dress me as a boy and take me from behind.

He had issues.

One was an alcoholic and would go on endless riffs.

The war.

The women who left.

The wife he wouldn’t.

One night he called from a bar and left seventeen messages on my machine.

Did I mention he was an alcoholic?

One never touched the stuff. It made him vomit.

He was always home.

One drove a nervous car with too many miles and not enough insurance.

But every weekend he drove two hundred miles in frantic traffic to see me.

One never came even when I offered to pay the airfare.

One was married to somebody. A string of somebodies.

We saw each other off and on/in between/during/above and below/over

A quarter of a century.

When he divorced the last time, I realized finally:

He was the father almighty’s approval.

I would never get his approval.

I didn’t need his approval anymore.

I had made him up.

When he came, he:

Hiccupped like a dolphin.

Snorted like a horse.

Embarrassed me hollering like a girl.

Was strangely silent like a deer.

Panted like a little dog and planted a kiss on my butt.

Each and every time.

Never. And afterwards he:

Laughed a little.

Wheezed.

Hacked up a furry cough.

Sprinted off to the shower like I was the plague.

Lit up a smoke.

Never smoked.

Had a collapsed lung.

Had only one lung and was a percussionist.

After our goodbye I sent him

Pawnshop bongo drums and marshmallows from Texas

All the way to an address in Athens.

A year later the bongo drums and marshmallows came back unopened.

Across how many oceans?

A package stamped in Greek letters: “Address Unknown.”

But I read it as: “Undress Alone.”

I sent a hundred-dollar bouquet of parrot

Tulips to a restaurant where one worked as a bartender

Even though he was terrible in bed because:

I was grateful.

I was needy.

I was young.

(See above.)

I was/am/always will be a romantic.

Which is the same as saying: I fall in love all by myself.

I sent one a poem.

I never saw him again.

I sent one a twenty-seven-page letter wrapped around a brick for dramatic effect.

I sent one postcards from Trieste, Sarajevo, Sparta, Sienna, Perpignan,

Describing my other lovers.

All he did was laugh.

One was a Tejano fitness freak from Austin.

Tremendous.

A lottery prize.

I’m not kidding.

Until he opened his mouth and spoke:

Like a guitar.