Steve Cohn
I run into this one
young chick, "young shiksa"
after the class lets out.
She's holding a flower.
Her hair is brown
with subtle streaks of red
interlaced,
like a horse's mane.
As she passes on
by me,
I get one of those long stares
shot my way,
that is as timeless and languid
as polished granite.
I smell her.
Beneath her perfume,
her Village-girl Anais Anais-
smell her.
Her hands, her fingernails, all
Of her, her
Flesh and her
Blood
And bone
and real evil meat.
We step out of the street
into some moonlight delicatessen
up on Avenue A,
and she asks me
Do I have a dime to complete her exact right change
so as not to break up a dollar?
We trade
A nickel and dime for a quarter;
My quarter, her dime and nickel.
I feel her dime and nickel
in my pocket
mixing with the other change
as change yearns to do---
Slithering,
between billfolds
and business cards.
Late last night, I fell asleep on the couch,
Dreaming I was an extra in an old Vidor flick.
The TV was still on-
I could hear it through all the mists-
And a tender love scene would suddenly cut away
To Jessica Hahn, an attack of killer mantises.
I woke up at eleven.
The room seemed to be much as I'd left it.
I watched Popeye for a while
And smoked a cigarette.
Somehow, the heat in the house had risen to eighty-five,
So I lounged around in boxer shorts
And drank iced tea all afternoon.
Later, when the proper inspiration had arrived,
I dressed. I went out shopping.
Lechmere was teeming with people, everywhere.
Children crawling all over men's laps,
Crying after their lost balloons up in the rafters.
A fat woman spit a wad of tobacco in the cigarette sands.
I thought she was very rude, to do that.
Regis Philbin was giving a speech outside, by the lagoon.
He didn't even mention Kathie Lee once.
That's when I finally figured out that they weren't married.
So much young skin.
Sitting here, half-stoned
with elegant visions
of virginity.
Jesus.
Young, nubile and virgin flesh
all around me, one
at every goddamned desk.
Sweet sixteens,
debutantes,
hairspray and stonewashed jeans.
Tight, young asses
poured into black spandex tights,
like a pitcherful of some
heady
spring juices.
The instructor is old and boring,
boring me with some tired old palaver
about seatbelts
and safety,
about chairs and children.
And, o, what I wouldn't do
for a piece of just one of these
children.
I am a very experienced driver.