The longest legs I’ve ever seen you showed me as I tried to comfort you my calm threatening to disintegrate into a thousand pieces. Step back boy, breathe easy. How could I let myself get in the middle of this mess fall for you so hard, too hard, too far in to hold on too tightly or to let loose scared to death you’ll get away. I listen to you breathe in the dark Snoring lightly. I study your profile in the dim light from the nightlight by the sink in this hotel room. I asked to stay and you said yes I wanted to keep an eye on you and I did, all night long unable to sleep, in awe of lying next to you wanting to hold onto you for keeps. Here I lay, in love with another man’s wife. He belittles and insults you in public, plunges you into financial ruin, and now he beats you, too. Run, run as far away, while you can. I’d like to pummel the lout for all the good it wouid do I pleaded with you, begged, chided you to be done with him to go home to your folks for a while . . . . and when you’re ready to return I’ll be there to pick up after you. You call your dad. His sympathetic tone and concern reassure and convince you. We head back, you unsteady on your feet after sorrow and fear and a few glasses of Chardonnay have weaved their spell, my arm around you as we lurch down Baker Street. I make the call to reserve the flight for the next morning, almost dropping the phone as you emerge from the bathroom wearing pajamas that show off those legs (Oh, God, help me), then staying to light your cigarettes (momentarily brushing your left breast with the back of my hand) and to listen as you try to figure out why all this is happening to you again. I don’t want to leave I want to hear you talk forever, ponder that beautiful face with its slightly upturned nose, tangled blonde hair, replay again and again your scratchy, smoky voice with its midwestern cadences and strange ability to comfort me. My sweet, my beautiful anxiety-laden wonder I want you for my own for however long I’m destined to hang around this crazy, wildly spinning place I call home.
Reason for writing:
What it sounds like . . . . Now, how to tell her this,
there's the rub. Any suggestions out there?
Birth sign: Capricorn
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Mad Hatter.