A long, long time ago

David’s Curls
I remember them
bristle-stiff and blonde,
tiny corkscrews
framing a heart-shaped face.

He was a panflute player.
An effervescent fuck
smelling of soap and musk.
From his roof downtown
I could see the back side
of a beaten down marquis,
The Million Dollar Hotel.
He would play records,
bands I’d never heard of,
while we drank cheap sangria
out of big plastic cups.

Most of the time
he made me feel stupid
and unwelcome.
It wasn’t his fault.
He was a different person
when he drank
(though that was often).

But there was one day
a long sober Saturday–
leisurely breakfast,
people watching,
summer shiftlessness–
that ended with a nap at sunset
together on his beat-up couch.
For a moment it felt as if
I might be able to trust
and fall into him.

Of course,
that wasn’t the case.

And nine years later
I’m still waiting
for that man.