Litany of Lovers
Litany of Lovers
The first time I saw him was at a Moody Blues concert.
The first time I saw him, he waved from behind the wheel of his Daddy’s propane truck.
The first time I saw him, he came out of the house instead of his brother,
jumped in my car, and said, “Let’s go.” We did.
The first time I saw him, he wore a red bandana over his sun-bleached hair.
The first time I saw him, he had on a brass belt buckle that said, “Jeff.”
The first time I saw him, he grinned like an imp and I knew my only child
would have his laughing eyes.
The first time I saw him, I thought “What the hell is Jesus Christ doing here in the stairwell?”
The first time I saw him is unknown. He was always there, in the background, a quiet presence, until finally I saw him, really saw him, standing under the pines in a friend’s yard, arms crossed, glaring at me, wondering why I was so blind. So I kissed him, and the future and the past collided.
And I never saw anyone else again.
