Melisa

these fearsome marvels · Melisa

Monday morning, I’d
be searching, swerving
high and low and tripping
long, by bulls
and pools. A fool
would I be, searching under
every stone, for one
who loved me just
a moment, but eternal
one: a moment.
Won’t forget the moment when
she hugged me.

A fool would I be,
vainly seeking, peeking
under every hood,
behind each goggle,
blinking, winking
back my sleep, still seeking
into night for
checkered cotton—
angora—
for stylin’ wild and bright-
eyed child, yawning
into dawn and crossing
each abscissa.
Misty-eyed I’d list
from miss to miss,
one missive on my
lips: Melisa? It’s

lucky, I’m not stuck. A
lucky fucker,
I! I gave my number,
thumbed in phone
my number. Even
in her sun, I typed
it right. Someone looking out
for me,
all right. Someone running
everything
up there, someone there to
guide the pair
of all-thumbs Amar’s
stumpy wayward thumbs.

Right! Thumb,
foresight, bright...then
to my lips,
forefinger, thinking...what?
And how? How now
this miss, Melisa,
what to write Melisa?
Hi? Hello? Happy I, enjoyed
to meet you? Joy. It was a joy,
and einmal,
keinmal would it
just as joyful been.