The Crude and the Sweet
I could not have predicted how it would end,
With a sandwich he made for me.
A wedge of meat loaf wrapped in a slice of rye,
Draped around the meat like a tortilla.
It was awkward in my hand
But well-intentioned.
It just wasn’t gourmet cooking
And it sure as hell wasn’t
A diamond, with him on his knees,
Asking if we could be forever and all that jazz.
If I had known it would be our last date
I would have held that sandwich
Like a bride holds her bouquet.
I can’t even
Say how much I would enjoy
Love without clumsiness,
And even as I say it, I know
There’s no way to avoid it.
The world is full of men who are
Sad little boys.
Unable to reach
That place where girls were already
Planning the rest of their lives,
They offered what they could.
Desire was easy!
They savored femaleness in the smooth pages of Playboy.
I wasn’t any better. I slept with record albums,
Pretended the shrink-wrap
Was the rock star’s black leather.
When we were kids, we were all amateurs
At sex and love. We made the crude sacred
And left the sense and sweetness
To the randomness of fate.
It might be fun
To be a romance novice again,
To sigh over someone who
Seems just wonderful
In spite of all the stumbling.
Yet I find myself
Tearing up
At the memory of that sandwich,
A hasty nibble, assembled from leftovers,
And possibly, an expression
That, in my longing for sweet songs,
I did not hear.
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