What is there to say?

The last time

we met on the street

you showed surprise my hair

had turned gray,

although you were kind enough

to quickly hide  it.

 

Our greeting was too brief;

you were still angry,

I had so many regrets.

 

I was 24 years old,

a topless dancer on Walker Street.

I wanted to perform with Martha Graham.

Instead of telling you I was a student,

I told you my dream.

You tipped generously

and asked for a private dance.

I wore my red coat to your loft

and fell in bed

after you rubbed my back.

 

I remember tripping in

kaleidoscope colors of

sea and fish and coral rocks

as we made love

still wet from the Caribbean sea.

 

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