Joan
Divorced, thirty-seven, predatory,
I used to chat up the women at lunch
In the faculty dining room. Glory
Goes with pain, you know, and playing hunches
Might, just might, enliven my lonely life.
I met Joan—inadequately married—
Shamelessly hit on her, babbled as if
A flood of words, would do the trick, carry
Her to my bed, until, exhausted, said,
“I should shut up, just sweep you off your feet.”
And that was that, until again we met,
When, eyebrow arched, she said (grave, but cheeky)
“Why don’t you take me to your place tonight
And sweep me off my feet?” Damn it! I’d made
A date I couldn’t break—sucked air, felt fright—
And, as I murmured sheepishly, I prayed
She wouldn’t huff rebuff—“I can’t tonight,
Would tomorrow work?” Her steady eyes, blue
Flame and ice, met mine. Smiling, she said “Sure.”
She came, embraced, undressed; we loved. That night
The die was cast—trajectory and shape—
And tumbled through some 40 years of grace.
(1/24/07)