I always  thought I’d start stories
about her with “I met her way back when”
Only
it wasn’t way back when and
I still choke up when I think of
all the place we’ve been.

I can see her now in all her glory.
A blur of booze, vanity and cheap
self esteem spread evenly. A touch of mint twist of lemon
And we‘d call her a drink. Purple vanity maybe
she was ten feet tall if she was an inch.

Dressed to the nines we hugged. I saw stars cut in
Blues, yellows, browns. Fabrics that dripped gold.
Colorful dresses aside--she was quite the woman,
And did I mention completely made of stone?
No not metaphorically either. I’m quite literal.

Pink and squishy on the inside no doubt but
All rock on the outs. It didn’t phase me once.
She cut through the locals like a knife.
Working the talk show scene with ease
I was pulled along for the ride. I could forever live
in her fancy bag with candy and crème.
And then

She shook with rage. Maybe I was a player
Mr. million dollar man
to be the hero of a city
Ripe with need.  Instead I was a spectator
unaware of the history before me.
Blank faced I watched her pick them off one by one.
Like so much dead weight. Friend or foe.
I never understood that moment.