From Nerve Cowboy #13 Spring 2002

 

OFTEN ON RAINY DAYS

 

Julie Lechevsky

 

Each time I meet a new man, I try to be good this time.

I act dignified and remote, and say I have appointments,

convinced that morning coffee can never turn into midnight.

 

That's why I hate these guys you see for the first time,

who act like they've already plumbed your depths.

They have intrusive, mocking eyes,

as though they'd seen this butterfly before.

 

You start to feel you are dragging your bed invisibly behind you,

and there will soon be a pillow under your butt.

 

They are not put off by discussions of politics, weather, or the Atkins Diet.

Nothing is of any interest but you beneath your clothes from Vera Wang.

Their eyes bore into your frozen heart like a greased ice pick,

pawn shop jewelers with loupes in their sockets

who on this particular day are all tired out from sapphires

and are only interested in slate.

 

You know you will be in the sack by nine,

but the day had been so pretty.

 

This is the kind of man I would like to hang in a cloakroom,

so that his eyes could pop out forever over rainwear and umbrellas.

 

 

 

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