Nadine, eight years older than I, hired my sister
to babysit her red-headed stepson, flattered shy me
to Ann Arbor but with a twist of jerky hanging
from pale pink lips: she nominated her cousin Marti
my girlfriend before the three of us tanned near a beach.
That weekend I remained quiet as a dead telephone,
and both women later agreed I was a brainless monk,
a wallet with no ID. And to think all I had desired
was a ride on the Trailways to the Fillmore East
and a ticket to watch Moby Grape open for the Stones.
Then I could have harmonized on refrains,
not worried about these two almost strangers
judging me with eyes of silence for my silence
that yearned to sing 2000 Light Years From Home.
David Spicer has published poems in Santa Clara Review, Reed Magazine, Synaeresis, Hamilton Stone Review, Alcatraz, Yellow Mama,The Reed Magazine, CircleShow, Chiron Review, Ploughshares, American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of Everybody Has a Story and six chapbooks, the latest of which is Tribe of Two (Seven CirclePress). A new collection of poems, Waiting for the Needle Rain (Hekate Publishing) is now available. His website is www.davidspicer76.com.