Playing the Field

You liked the way
I wore short skirts
bare-legged
with Doc Martens
or motorcycle boots.
I liked the way
your shoulders sprawled
from under a teeny
ribbed undershirt.
“You should let me
take you out,” you said.
“You should
let me take you
in,” I should have said.
Instead, I half-shrugged, half-
smiled, crooked as the Cheshire Cat.
It was always like that
between us—stalemate to stalemate.
Oh, but when I look up
from anything and let
my eyes drag out a window
I can see you trotting toward me,
pecs first. No one else
in the world could emanate
the way you did from flat-front
khaki pants. Irish-American
from Boston, swing dancer
I could have flipped against.
Dear God!
by now you must be a Green Beret.
It’s been weeks like this, all
memories without a name.

Angie Hogan