I was a grownup, and then in parts of this poem I was 19 or 16 or God knows what. Which shouldn't matter to the reader.
I probably had my first Anchor Steam at about age 33.
No Rest for the Restless
I reckon love isn’t for layabouts. I reckon
if I have it, I have to get off the sofa and boogie.
Trouble is, I can’t tell if love is dream or reality.
I might well have had one too many Anchor Steams,
dozed off between soaps, absorbed the suds
of ruffle-haired swains, plastic blondes, neighbor
nurses with a surfeit of eyeliner, perfume execs
of dubious predilections, and all their attendant
couplings in counterpoint to Pachelbel. Or
I might have talked to that redheaded usher
at Guys and Dolls or felt the hint of a flirt from
Dan at the deli counter. Or I might have looked
deep into my own heart, which dances
in this indolent chest, and seen a movement
toward a dance with you, whether you like it or not.