When I was twelve,
we broke into this fenced off over-pass,
‘n walked into Waiting for Godot.
blasted hill, single gnarled tree.
I imagined that it was a her,
and that she’d be germanic and softspoken,
smelling of early spring,
and my god,
there isn’t a line that isn’t sexual there,
I tried,
she was scented like young life and fruit,
but it all sounds like I’m some creepy asshole singing about her young vagina.
she just smelled pleasantly natural.
and then we left on vinyl highway, Dandy Warhols “Big Indian”,
and I learned that I had this taste for historical figures–
that I ain’t ever kicked,
that too-hot gunpowder smell of dust in the air at sunset,
them loomin’ grain elevators over sweepin’ plains.
but it’s been a long since,
‘n I been swept up in mountains,
‘n tossed in storms.
‘n I met a girl at a bookstore today,
‘n that don’t mean a thing,
just means she was there, ‘n I was there,
‘n we talked; I asked a question, she found a section,
‘n that’s it.
they keep harpin’ on love at first sight,
‘n I’m like, is that right?
’cause just, just lookin’ ain’t enough.
and I’m standin’ next to this ol’ tree,
playin’ with this dusty milk-jug,
wonderin’ if a hangin’ is the best aphrodisiac,
‘n rememberin’ that all those women I’ve loved,
came to love me first.
she’ll be french I tells ya,
born Irish, but adopted by Paris,
stern-faced, with silver-gray hair,
worn in black-turtle-necks,
‘n coffee-shop first-time slams.
My lovely Beckett, called Godot.
She will be here, ‘n I’ll be happy,
‘n we’ll all be happy.
