Alaine Benard
for Robert James
It's the perfect day for riding. Seventy-five degrees with soft breezes
that blow your locks wild and spring loose wild hairs enough to make
you forget. I should be on back of Spider's hog, not rewinding scenes,
replaying skin textures from the last time we danced. Finally, a perfect
jitterbug; a twirly-swirl down
that carried me to
rocked us at B.B. King's House of Blues, almost as well as that sweet
Motel6 bed of comfortable release under those eternally hopeful lights
they leave on for you. Rosy glows on vacationing families, or couples
meeting, like we did, for our tryst across the street from the dark café
with the famous BBQ I'd always heard about and wanted to try. You
bought me beer in big blue cups, grape cigars, and the pink silk dress
I played pool in at the biker bar at the end of the block. The old trolley
took us underneath grey clouds to The Peabody Hotel lobby so I could
watch the ducks swim round and round the fountain. They looked like
tin toy windups, but where were the keys? I couldn't see. Old eyes, or
maybe just tears threatening to fall as mechanical feet marched blindly
over red carpet to the penthouse elevator. You held my purse and hand
later, after too many beers. Zipping my coat, you said I was sexy, then
found a taxi that delivered us back to Tom Bodett's. You ran to the gas
station in the cold drizzle to buy me those peanut butter cookies I crave
with a small milk. The red label read, Turner: 100% Fresh Whole Milk
in plain block letters. I remember looking at those letters as if they
were
handwriting on walls. Somehow decipherable. Then you rubbed my spot
like nobody can, making the bulged discs and lightning fast trains back
to
the kitchen listening. I strain to hear a whippoorwill whistle or even one
robin weeping. Hank Senior didn't lie. On the highway out back, Harley
winds blow far from
