For OliPosted: April 7, 2011
There was that time at Cowgirl
(and how many West Village stories start like that?)
when Jack Friedman,
ever the gentleman,
suggested spinning bottles
as a way of getting at Ali’s chest.
And Heinz pointed to you
and our eyes were locked and careful
and I passed within a hair’s breath
of giving you my first kiss.
But our lips they never touched–
you kept mum and gracefully
our gaze unclutched
while Jack’s best laid plans went bust.
I thank you for that,
in the formal, metered fashion
and watch your love of Sondheim’s wolves
write across my simulacrum.
Funny how the stars are flung–
how one sun births another
until the gears somehow align
and the distance comes asunder.