Saturday Night Sniffles

10,4,03
Saturday Night I sought the fever
But all I found were the sniffles.

It wasn't your fault
You were wonderful,
Beautiful, magical,
Vivacious, dynamic,
Delicious, delectable,
And divine.
And I was delerious.
Whacked out on cold medicine and your smile.

I was so looking forward to Saturday,
And you,
And poetry.
Your poetry.
My poetry.
The poetry we could make.

But first the professionals.
And we listened.
And I understood why they're paid
And that I haven't begun paying my dues.

And I listened
To the poets and the language of your body.
Without touching you I imagined how you felt.
Your breasts straining under thin cotton
stretching your long-sleeved green and white ywca t-shirt
The firm curve of your jeans.
The red white and blue panties peeking out.

And I felt each time you trembled and didn't know it,
And I felt the abandon when you laughed out loud
At the words.

And it seemed like the windowshades of your soul had rolled up and open so fast
The spring rod was still spinning.

And I wanted to write you a poem that could do that.
And I want you to blush when you hear it.

Dinner was fine.
3-2 beer and sloppy hamburgers.
You still glowing,
Growing brighter when I suggested your place for poetry.
With a quick stop at the liquor mart on the way.

And you called me a functioning alcoholic and asked my last name.
And I told you
and I blamed it on my Irish and Cherokee heritage.

And then it was Van Gogh's ear and Rachmoninoff,
Until you said,
"Enough Ginsberg!"
And we laughed and agreed that he just went too far, sometimes.

And then you read to me of breasts,
And the beloved,
And death.
And I couldn't take my eyes off you.
And I listened
To your lips and the language of your body.

And the words dripped from your tonque
Like sweat from the small of your arched back
Could have been dripping on the mattress.

And your nipples pressed against thin cotton.
Through your pink I have issues tank-top.
And I asked you where I could get a shirt written in braille.
But what I wanted to say was
Nothing at all.

I wanted to touch you
And whisper poetry in your ear
And inhale the scent of your hair.

But I had the sniffles,
And I couldn't speak my soul through a kleenex.

So we played cribbage when we were too drunk to sight-read.
Laughing and talking, I sneezing, till we couldn't keep our eyes open.
I went through a whole box of tissues
And a six-pack of red stripe.

And I'm looking forward to next time,
And you,
And poetry.
Your poetry.
My poetry.

The poetry we can make,
When I throw my words through your window
And the shades snap up.
And you can see your soul
Reflected in my eyes.

And I'll feel you tremble without you knowing it.
And I'll feel the abandon when you cry out loud...
At my touch.

Sometime after I'm over the Saturday night sniffles.