Once I destroyed a man’s idea of himself,
to have him.
—Frank O’Hara
I guess it might be tough to see,
now that I have
been an outcast for so long,
but I was serenaded one evening
on the violin
in a classy restaurant
by a sweet young lady
who was in love with me.
She took me out for my 20th birthday.
Secret plans had been made.
She had gone to the restaurant earlier
to give her violin to the maitre d’,
so he could surprise me
during our meal.
My baby-fat paunch now
larger with the years,
my beard
that reeked and reeks of weed,
my denim jacket hanging on the rack,
the fleece-lined one my family gave me
long ago to exalt my promise
and which I lost years ago,
my whole small-town heart
sitting there on display
should have broken then
(I sensed)
with the whole classy restaurant looking on
as witnesses to this odd event,
which nothing came of, by the way.
Odd, because the town already
had the goods on me,
and did not hesitate, and because
I never denied it.
She played her instrument
proudly for me
and my princeliness,
such as it was.
But I felt embarrassed for the girl,
standing there plump as a donut
in her lavender dress,
making her violin almost sob
(she could really play),
because I knew what she did not,
that I had already tried twice with guys
and knew I would do it again.