The Sign of Four
My memories were street fights.
There were four of them and one of me.
You were a handsome gigolo
and I was the girl who overcame polio
and tea was not something that we
smoked and snow was not a rhyme
for now and off went the television
and my name wasn't subject to revision
as water and sugar revise rum and lime
and couch analysts raise their fee
and sigh as the hour comes to an end
and cops read you your rights.
The bitch had claimed to be my friend.
You worked on the day shift. I wore tights.
In 1976, When She Was Born
Life was dull in 1976.
Dad had to read "Ivanhoe" and write a report.
Sex was not yet Mom’s favorite sport.
The only rhyme that came to mind was "dicks."
Mom was somewhere north
of the Mass / NH border.
She was just following an order,
not calculating its moral worth.
She was on vacation
and not happily after ever.
He promised to wait
for her return to the state
of eternal temptation.