The Bassist of Boston
I was in love with her
although she was old enough to be my mother
Maude to my Harold, December to my May
but she hadn’t lost her edge
drinking Stoli
out of a Dunkin’ Donuts cup
talking about the time she
dated the bassist of Boston
claiming like every
other New Englander
that her family was stealing
her inheritance
okay, maybe it wasn’t love
but it was more than a feeling
when a perfume
like sandalwood and juniper berries
caught the Gloucester breeze
and I knew she was walking to the bar,
where I could meet her for drinks
before my wife came home
Horror Sleaze Trash 