Old Paramour

OLD PARAMOUR

When I was 26, I danced in tight skirts,
Cheetah spots, dangerous heels.
Moved in lines traced by magnetic declinations.
Rebel breasts, dressed to express maximum observation
taught you to laugh, to breathe
to tread water in the narrows of exclusion.
God--how you loved my body.

You were 66, dressed in Saville suits,
banker's stripes, Italian leather.
Moved in swells, curves, swoops of corporate power.
You gave me carnations and the secrets
to cool art, light sculpture, hard jazz.
Lord--how I loved your mind.

I was too young, too wild, too untrained.
You were too old, too settled, too knowing.
We scored our wonderful, skipping exits
with glistening, musical punctuation.
Man, the world hated us together.

At 56, I buy relaxed-fit jeans, tunic-tops, sensible shoes.
I ponder that there is nothing believable
about the Earth's magnetic field.
I am well-married, fully insured, a little lonely.
I have all your letters in a lovely, dusty box.
Voyagers don't always find what they're looking for.
Yes--I still love your mind.
Not certain if you would still love my body.


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