If I were twelve, I’d write your name in Peter Max pillows
Over and over until it was perfect.
But you were only seven, then.
Five years makes a difference.
You can’t remember the day JFK was shot.
That could be a problem in a relationship.
But I’m in love with your celluloid personalities: pirate, gypsy, dead man.
So it’s a little exciting to know that you go to the grocery store and the dentist, too.
Next time you’re in my town, I shop at the West Side, and see Dr. Klein.
First published in Circle Magazine (Winter 2004)
Used here with the author’s permission.