A cellist floats behind you and taps you on the shoulder.
Your heart explodes as Coakley finishes up a 45-minute set.
You never forgot her curled tresses, warm smile, gentle voice.
Last summer, in three days time she alternately played,
Vanished, played until you were one with the moon.
(Botticelli never saw hair like this.)
So she floats back in off a west wind, sits long enough to
Write out her address and asks, like a .22 caliber bullet newly
Lodged in a calf muscle, where Ilya Kaminsky is. Kaminsky, if
Only he could see her now! But he’s not here, she’ll have to
Settle for his address because there’s no way you’re committing
Emotional suicide by handing out his phone number.
Last summer, in three days time she chose the Russian muse,
Leaving one dangling slab of manhood, cozy, familiar, alone.
You sit, hoping she will stay. Your penis stretches out
Like an uncurled finger, or a winking eye. So, like her, you
Stand: maybe she’ll notice the oldest symbol of affection
Bulging. But the room is dark, she would find it rude,
And you’re better off, as your four minutes of fame is
About to begin – hard or not hard. After you’re done
you light up. A typical evening of artsy-fartsy debauchery
Races through your mind. How can you let her
Slip away without another poem, painting, concerto?
That’s it! Forget the “how-do-you-dos,” just write her
A concerto. Cello and flute. No, no. Cello and Tenor Sax.
How often does the beam of a soul shoot out to the world?
Can she possibly return again? You sit wondering when,
Clutching the address of this decade’s angel.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1997. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.