Tennis Socks
It was the year we gave up rooftops for boat decks.
You had fallen for Auden
and that man with golden talents
O what was his name —Thom, John
sucking cocks in your tennis socks
from Good Harbor to York Beach,
you thought you were the woman
who invented love
but love couldn’t save me, or you
so we drank at the 525
like Hamlet’s gravedigger-clowns,
unaware of our own errors
unaware that all the boats are named Grady
and that Pedro pitched Don Zimmer to the ground,
unaware that Toby died
and Holly crashed her car into The Oceanside
searching for Mercy Street in the Magnolia dusk—
It’s not there, baby. It’s not there.
You served aces and I
fished white blossoms from your hair.
Horror Sleaze Trash 