Baltic beauty, your wide smile,
always full of fun and fate.
You filled up the cabin of that dusty
brown Camaro with the clouds
from your Dumauriers.
spilled off your tongue—
a trailer-trash imposter.
To look at you was to feel envy in ones bones—
those lips, those eyes, a voluptuous body,
silked in voluminous violet.
Luminous on the dance floor;
you were coveted by all.
Clink-ice Chivas, in your glass,
as you mesmerized the boys who dared
make a pass.
We’d laugh all the way home in the car
while your smoke, poked through the window—
cracked to appease me.
We’d say G’night! knowing those times
were so rare—
you weren’t really my fair-weather friend—
we were just there as conveniences
for each other: a ride, another voice in the car,
someone to share the exploits—
to be real with sometimes
we’d go weeks without a call,
but always we could fall back on
each other for the company
when others failed us.
One time, we stretched it out too far—a few missed calls
and no messages
on the machine; ‘til no machine at all
prompted my persistence,
to learn your existence
had met its end
in a motel shower-stall.
I was K.O’d—
held the phone at arms length, looking
down at my lap,
listening to the foreign voice
the receiver was making.
No reasons were there to reassure.
(I had my own theories and scoured the pages
of the library periodicals for a crime-blot with your name.)
I’d missed it all—
the death, the funeral, the sad scene at a cold February grave,
but now whenever
I hear “Hot, Hot, Hot!” I see
a flash of purple,
and note the ice clink
in my glass.