Soft Spot
What if I told you I’m nostalgic
for five minutes ago, for the how it was,
not the how it is?
What if I said sometimes I miss the scent of clove
cigarettes, the cuff of your overcoat
heavy with smoke?
Truth be told
not so much anymore, but a slouch
of memory, the pages
of fresh orange juice on a beach I don’t know
the name of, the Grateful Dead tie you wore to the play.
I don’t remember the play, but the man
who sat in front of me, a redhead with moss green eyes.
What if I told you much of what I remember
is garbled and lost, my life
a cassette knotted and tied?
I’ve never been good at making speeches (I remember this)
but the name Lenny Salsa lives in my mind,
though I can’t remember what he did.
Let me remind you, your grin is the only gun
you ever need, my favorite murder with teeth.
Tell me something I won’t choke on.
Tell me with the lights cut out. With sesame oil
on your palms, with another moment I’ll probably,
hopelessly, forget.
