Thirty years ago, one lonesome Saturday night, I ran a finger
up the fold of your plaster chiton and
scribbled there in faint quavery pencil a tiny heart transfixed
by a tiny arrow. Beauty incarnate! Help me with my girls!
Fat chance. Armless and blank-eyed,
what good did you ever do me, just standing there mute
and off-white, a cool blank imbecile
oblivious to the blab and thrum of appetites unappeasable?
Ah, but I miss youth’s vapidity, its squeal and rum-tum-tum
and all those blubbering hithers and yons,
so I guess it’s good to see you’re still hulking over the lobby
decades later, tits out and not yet banished
for anachronistic indecency. Apparently someone dusts you
and sponges away the tiny penciled hearts
transfixed by tiny penciled arrows. I’ve grown old, ma’am.
But don’t be fooled by this stiff-kneed supplicant: haggard
and pinched, I’m still twitching, dogged
by the shades of impossible loves both anciently botched
and newly fletched. So it seems I’m forever yours, harried
and hied, a decaying iota fingering your stiff
unyielding hem, a squint at work on the skirt’s divine zipper.