memories of former lovers
Clyde McPhatter’s voice hovers
in the air like the ghost
of every old lover, even
the ones whose faces
you can’t quite picture,
but about whom you
remember some small
thing — the perfume she
wore; the soft pink of
her lips and the little mole
beside her nose; how
she’d laugh at your jokes
then take your arm
as you reached the side-
walk and headed toward
the subway; the way her
hands shook after making
love; the slightly bitter
taste of her skin from the
lotion she used; the blue
in her eyes like the promise
of an ocean voyage —
and you weave those
memories into a blanket
that keeps you warm at
night as the Drifters
sing you to sleep.
13 December 2013
Oak Street
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