'518'

You were

waking me upon the cold seat of the

great-winged

DeSoto at the Cohoe Drive-In, that worried gaze

on your face telling me we were late, past

two Sean Connery thunderballing his way

out of Russia, near the extremity of the show. Now he's 72

Now you're nearly 48 I have a daughter graduated

from law seminary

your age when I last saw you burning alphabetic characters in the old barrel upon your winter

driveway, shouting at me not to tend hitherward back

if I left your cerulean bathrobe whipped

up through the wind to show your lengthy smooth tanned legs. I've kept in touch with friends of friends,

your telephone number hidden somewhere

now flat I can't remember, with your r and white checked summer

cotton dres

crumpling in a pile as you stepp on the outside of it, and the 36C black bra, the purplish-black mascara those

many times you wept,

me always trying to take not on your silk underpants,

you always holding back, masturbating me ok sucking upon me ok, but never the whole way, leave out that

once

on my maiden aunt's lie time grown

dim to me now as your telephone number

that had a 5 and a 1 and an 8 with four

other digits completely blank.

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