When I was good
in bed by nine
I wore my mother’s choice
spoke my teacher’s words
raised my hand
and waited to fall in love
like waiting to get my braces off
or waiting for that important call
because it was going to be wonderful
like running your tongue over smooth straight teeth
like running for the phone to hear his voice
and singing “Hello?”
But no—WRONG NUMBER.
Now I am better
in bed when I want
wear what I choose
question the questions
and speak my own mind
but still too naive
I closed my eyes
and hoped for the best
threw caution to the wind
and fell head-over-heels
like a giddy school girl landing the quarterback for prom
like running in place waiting for a miracle to happen.
But NO.
So . . .
I drink coffee black
in the calm of my kitchen
during wee morning hours
wearing his choice
ecru and teal he’ll never see
at least not on me
as he wanders
through my thoughts
so sweet so far away
like a magic act that once made you smile
like a distant fond memory you struggle to remember.
And when the phone doesn’t ring
I know it’s him.
