At Auditorium
I couldn't stop watching you at Auditorium, the little girl with golden hair. I was in love with you. You always sat three rows up from me, a little to the left, because that's the way our classes filed into Auditorium. Did you turn to look at me once? Smile? I learned your name was Linda. There was a song on the radio, “Linda”, and I sang it in my head at night, in my bed, thinking about you. I drove past our school yesterday. It is a ruin. The neighborhood is a ruin. But there is a party store across the street with bars on the windows and signs that say Cigarettes and Liquor and Lotto. Meet me there. I still love you, even after 65 years, if you are still the little girl with golden hair I couldn't stop watching at Auditorium.
At the Lipstick Counter
I saw you in a story. The author wrote, “A young woman stood at the counter, looking at lipsticks.” You were the young woman, but that was all the attention you received. The author didn't mention that you barely noticed the lipstick in your hand, your mind elsewhere, and that there was longing in your eyes. But how could he know? To him, you were a mere literary device. The author wrote, “Nearby, a man stared intently into a showcase of designer perfumes.” I was the man, but that was all the attention I received. The author didn't mention I wasn't really looking at perfumes; that I had paused there because I saw you and was smitten, and wanted to remain near you, within your blue aura. Neither did the author mention that I am an author, as well. But how could he know? To him, I was only an extra on the stage. I am desperate to meet you. Unless something more is written, you will remain at that lipstick counter forever, and I will remain forever at the perfume showcase. So I will write the story myself. We will be the main characters. Your name will be Dahlia. Mine will be Raymond. We will meet at the lipstick counter. But our relationship will end tragically. A writer must do what he must do.
In Sneakers
I saw you in sneakers. You were choosing a red wine at Whole Foods. I wanted to help, our fingertips touching as I handed you a Malbec from Spain. I saw you in Birkenstocks, wearing a faded Che Guevara T-shirt, head-to-head with an old goat with a ponytail. How could you? I saw you in high, black leather boots, crossing a busy Manhattan street with determination. I hoped you'd be careful. I saw you in stiletto heels, dancing the rumba with a swivel-hipped Latin lover who took you for granted. I didn't like him. I saw you in sensible heels, interviewing for a temp filing job at American Family Insurance. I was surprised to see you in Madison. I saw you in fuzzy pink slippers, stirring a yellow mug of tea with a brown cinnamon stick. I craved seeing your smile. I saw you in saddle oxfords, at the malt shop with that football player. In penny loafers and knee socks, walking across the quad with a frat boy also in penny loafers. I saw you in ballet slippers, reading Kahlil Gibran at the Barnes and Noble. “Life without love is like a tree without blossoms.” I nearly swooned. I saw you in Joan Crawford fuck-me shoes, sipping a Cosmo in the Shadow Bar at Caesar's Palace. I was on a losing streak. I saw you in flip-flops at the K-Mart. In Earth shoes, carrying a sign that said “WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER”. I saw you in hiking boots, drinking water from a canteen, then wiping your brow with a blue bandana. I would have given anything to drink from that same canteen, to touch that bandana to my lips. I have always loved you. Won't you come to me now, running, barefoot.
I couldn't stop watching you at Auditorium, the little girl with golden hair. I was in love with you. You always sat three rows up from me, a little to the left, because that's the way our classes filed into Auditorium. Did you turn to look at me once? Smile? I learned your name was Linda. There was a song on the radio, “Linda”, and I sang it in my head at night, in my bed, thinking about you. I drove past our school yesterday. It is a ruin. The neighborhood is a ruin. But there is a party store across the street with bars on the windows and signs that say Cigarettes and Liquor and Lotto. Meet me there. I still love you, even after 65 years, if you are still the little girl with golden hair I couldn't stop watching at Auditorium.
At the Lipstick Counter
I saw you in a story. The author wrote, “A young woman stood at the counter, looking at lipsticks.” You were the young woman, but that was all the attention you received. The author didn't mention that you barely noticed the lipstick in your hand, your mind elsewhere, and that there was longing in your eyes. But how could he know? To him, you were a mere literary device. The author wrote, “Nearby, a man stared intently into a showcase of designer perfumes.” I was the man, but that was all the attention I received. The author didn't mention I wasn't really looking at perfumes; that I had paused there because I saw you and was smitten, and wanted to remain near you, within your blue aura. Neither did the author mention that I am an author, as well. But how could he know? To him, I was only an extra on the stage. I am desperate to meet you. Unless something more is written, you will remain at that lipstick counter forever, and I will remain forever at the perfume showcase. So I will write the story myself. We will be the main characters. Your name will be Dahlia. Mine will be Raymond. We will meet at the lipstick counter. But our relationship will end tragically. A writer must do what he must do.
In Sneakers
I saw you in sneakers. You were choosing a red wine at Whole Foods. I wanted to help, our fingertips touching as I handed you a Malbec from Spain. I saw you in Birkenstocks, wearing a faded Che Guevara T-shirt, head-to-head with an old goat with a ponytail. How could you? I saw you in high, black leather boots, crossing a busy Manhattan street with determination. I hoped you'd be careful. I saw you in stiletto heels, dancing the rumba with a swivel-hipped Latin lover who took you for granted. I didn't like him. I saw you in sensible heels, interviewing for a temp filing job at American Family Insurance. I was surprised to see you in Madison. I saw you in fuzzy pink slippers, stirring a yellow mug of tea with a brown cinnamon stick. I craved seeing your smile. I saw you in saddle oxfords, at the malt shop with that football player. In penny loafers and knee socks, walking across the quad with a frat boy also in penny loafers. I saw you in ballet slippers, reading Kahlil Gibran at the Barnes and Noble. “Life without love is like a tree without blossoms.” I nearly swooned. I saw you in Joan Crawford fuck-me shoes, sipping a Cosmo in the Shadow Bar at Caesar's Palace. I was on a losing streak. I saw you in flip-flops at the K-Mart. In Earth shoes, carrying a sign that said “WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER”. I saw you in hiking boots, drinking water from a canteen, then wiping your brow with a blue bandana. I would have given anything to drink from that same canteen, to touch that bandana to my lips. I have always loved you. Won't you come to me now, running, barefoot.
