11,041 vagabonds plus:
my shining hour
Remember all those summer-kissed nights? When I held your hand quickly climbing the stairs to the balcony at the Old Theater for heart pounding solitude but we actually watched all those old films instead? Remember, that one, Public Enemy, and how we both Cagney-speaked back at the screen, and in the end we froze at how he met his end? We'd sit there unaware the air-conditioned morgue-of-a-theater was empty, and exiting out into the close quiet-street nights, damn, how those yellow aisle lights illuminated your luscious movie star legs.
When I spun that Coltrane album, I remember the faces you made when you didn't get it, his sound, but you do recall how My Shining Hour made you rise slowly and the way you simmered about, your hips, even your fingertips lit up? You took it home. And once I stood underneath your window, watching your shadow dance performance for the ages behind those thin curtains, and your mom walked in and caught you. And when dogs barked I ran, not seeing you for a long time, and she sold that worn Coltrane for ten cents at a yard sale to give to kids who'd never eaten in their lives, and you cried when you told me, but I kissed those tears dry.
And whenever I took you home, those long goodbyes on your front porch resembling first-time hellos? Hello. Remember your old man - hell, that same song and dance - how we instinctively knew he was peeking, and sure enough, if a certain amorous young man circled within ten feet of you he played lighthouse keeper and flipped on that damn light bright enough to startle that Russian dog orbiting above?
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