A long time ago I wrote this for a girl I had met, but thought I'd never see again...

We stayed in the hotel long enough
For me to see you change clothes.
Naked, you gave me, then, a Chesire smile.
I think you were not embarrassed.

We broke fast at noon,
In a bar called Toonis'.
You had grapes stolen from the lobby,
An egg sandwich with mustard, and then beers.
I had water, a single malt Scotch, then another.
Miles Davis was on the juke box,
George Jones, Janis Joplin, and Albert King.
We listened, after arguing, to Buddy Guy,
And I kissed you behind the ear.
You slapped me and giggled.
Coyly, I think.

A brown cat with azure eyes settled beneath my stool,
And I rubbed her with the heel of my boot.
The light coming through the window on the far wall
Forced us to move to a table in the corner
Just shy of touching the incoming sun.
The bartender laughed at us making shadow puppets
And lit your cigarette
Even though he was across the room
When you pulled out a new one.
Without my knowing,
You took a picture of me and the bartender talking.
After we left, you told me you had stolen his cigarettes.

In the car we took Valium and Xanax for our heads.
You slept from Memphis to Oxford,
Missing the fruit of Autumn.
Going through Tupelo that Sunday morning,
I lusted through the driver's side window
At the beautiful, stricken girls
Mulling in front of their churches wearing
Heels and stockings, tugging the plaits of new dresses.
I prayed you wouldn't catch me,
But you snored, wearing my jeans and shirt
As if they were your own.

At a rest stop somewhere
Near the western border of Mississippi,
We stashed poems in every bathroom stall.
Before we left, you gave a decrepit old lady
In a wheelchair a necklace you had made.
You kissed her wrinkled face.
Her sister looked on with taut disapproval.