on a Tuesday night, savoring the last
few swallows around four a.m. We were watching
West Side Story and Tom cried
when Tony fell dead, when Maria stood up
for nonviolence. Whitney said she didn’t
like the movie. As always, I was somewhere
in the middle, content to hum and sing
about love and rumbles and all things passionate.
II. Tom colored the nails on his right hand
black with Whitney’s good Sharpie
and drew symbols of anarchy on his wrist.
While she was in the bathroom, he asked me
what else he should draw. I said a heart.
He put an arrow through it.
III. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said
to me -- “You know, honestly, I have to say, any man
who has even had the chance to touch you
is the luckiest man...” Oh, that Tom,
who told me again that I should call
the lead singer in his band. I balked. Whitney sat
beside the bassist with her arms folded across her chest.
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