It Never Happened

Let’s just imagine that you are magical,

that no light would flicker and no battery

die and no lover or wife or other can claim

you while you are with me. Let’s imagine

that you shiver and shudder and eat

my lamb and my rice pudding and drink

the wine and the whiskey and the cognac

and the elderflower never taking your

eyes off me. Let’s imagine that I am also

magical and can cook lamb and rice

pudding and pour many drinks without

ever taking my hands off you. Let’s imagine

you are unable to control yourself when

we are together, that we are all thumbs

and soft mouths and terrible fingers

and eyes of moon and eyes of sea and that

we smell beautiful to each other for no

reason. Let’s imagine you drove to my

house and your headlights did not flicker

and your battery did not die and you

were able to control the car and so

are not on the side of the road, not dead

or hurt but not anymore on your way

to my house either, calling your lover

or wife or other to come pick you up

and bring you home instead of coming

here, where there is no lamb, after all,

and no more wine, either, after all

this waiting, imagining you’re magical,

imagining what you’d say to her: “Um,

I was on the other side of town to pick

up some wine for dinner” or “I was

meeting old buddy Tom for a drink, he’s

just in town the one evening. Might

be home late.” But you were never

coming over, never even invited. As if

I’d ever be so clever. In fact I was just

imagining you’re magical when you called,

roadside, nearby, a blown battery for

no reason, for a ride home to your lover

or wife or other. You were on your way

home to her where she was preparing lamb

and rice pudding and when I dropped you

off you invited me in and I said no, not

taking my hands off the wheel, though

I wanted to imagine that your eyes flickered

and shivered and you said you couldn’t

control yourself, couldn’t take your eyes

off me, that I smelled like beautiful wine,

like elderflower, like pussy willow,

that you called me lamb and kissed me,

knowing that this very last part is the story’s

only true part, in which you touched

and kissed me with your wheel of fingers,

your terrible lying mouth.