Why I Didn’t

Of course.

I was going to, you know.

Or maybe you didn’t.

Already my mouth gone soft

when you kissed me good night

and let me go.

But instead of love

there was only an old sleeping bag

you tossed at me and three

flea bites on my belly

the next morning.

You didn’t know that,

did you?

I didn’t think so.

Nor your name I stole

and took with me

all the way from San Antonio

to Puerto Escondido.

And today when I waited

for your pickup to appear,

I’ll be right back, and left me there

on your porch full of suitcases and

crates and saws and cedar,

I went into your room

and lay down on your bed

just to see if it’d suit me.

The sheets were cool

and a fine talc of dust lay everywhere

the way some men who live alone

are used to living.

Oh I’m scared all right.

Haven’t you noticed, I’m

only shy when I like a man.

And to tell the truth

I’m not sure love is worth

the risk of losing friendship.

It would’ve been easy.

I could’ve claimed

I was afraid of the dark.

I am, you know. Afraid I mean.

But there was that plane

to catch the next morning.

And you had to go to work.

Besides, I was sleepy.

And love, that fish too old to get away,

will be there the next morning. And if not,

there are other mornings, other fish.