change of habitWhen I forget that night

at the State Drive-In with you

in the backseat of Christ’s

brother’s ’68 Wildcat,

Elvis ministering to Mary

Tyler Moore’s Change of Habit . . .

nothing will matter anymore.


When I forget the smells

of your hair and the Wind

Song on your neck, the Coppertoned

skin of your legs & arms against

that tight-white terrycloth

shorts & top outfit, our blood

throbbing, the trickling sweat . . .

nothing of me will remain.


When I can’t recollect

the fullness of your mouth

hungering to devour mine,

the anxious embrace of your arms,

your breasts pressing into

my chest, and our tongues

tangoing the ballroom of yes . . .

nothing will be left of my mind.


So, today, when you ask me

if I remember this anniversary,

the 43rd since our first date,

I laugh at the silly romance of it all,

duck my head as if someone lurking

overheard—afraid to be found out

a dream lover like you . . . that

nothing else has mattered more.

     for Pam

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