Down separate years they traveled
to meet once more in this cold
spot, strangers now, another pit
stop along a graveled road.
In this bog country, stars
cower in the grey blanket of night.
Before her, an old man, uncertain by the fire,
peat and pine logs still sparking
center stage. Shuffling feet, hands stretched
out for comfort and heat. Hard lines; won
and lost this pretty gypsy boy, no longer choosing
time in the Tempest Café.
She’s potent pink in the front row, sipping
gin fizz, icy as her fingertips. She drifts
across the borderline, remembering
wine breath slithering her skin,
the slip of red silk and the unzipping
of their youth. Oh, there was a time!
There was a time when paint flowed
unhindered across white.
Instrument against his thigh, he strokes the long, smooth
neck, notched like bone, a diminuendo encore. Strumming
her mouth, plucking her eyes, hammering her heart until
she slides, fret free, from her fucked-up life.
The Purple Hermit 