My Father Died in Texas

My father died in Texas
bound and tied to dreams of love
developed dancing to jazz and going downtown
in the suburbs,
to the movies
died still longing for Ava, Rita, or
any bleached blonde dame
languorous on a chaise,
martinis dry,
the air thick with sex
wanted a Varda girl for a wife,
bubbly breasts bursting out of gingham pinafores,
legs going on forever down to ankle strapped stilettos,
nibbling a peach.
I am my father’s girl even as I age,
wishing that I too were blonde
with a tiny waist,
a hundred men at my door,
showering me with roses,
offering love.
Oh yes, I would love to have had Bogie
and perhaps Robert Mitchum sharing my satin sheets,
but actually
I’ve crafted another version of Hollywood dreams
and likely will die
longing for the likes of James Dean,
hard bodied,
and misunderstood,
standing against the wind
out on 50 in Nevada,
somehow never before
touched to the soul
by love
until I come along,
riding a stallion,
the sky on fire.

In memory of my father, nearly Father’s Day 2003






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