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.