The Painter

Rode out to Seguin to see her. Stood in the doorway like she’d always been there. Fine&strong legs. Still working it with colored scarves. She wears it well. She always did.
“You know, I still think back to when we were 15 and you waited for me at my locker with a rose in your hand.”
Nothing’s changed. I’m still an old sap romantic. Just mangled some. My lover’s history one hot&crazy summer night in the ghetto. When Red threw a brick through the window ’cause she wanted her copy of Great Shark Hunt back. And Maryte took a swing at me at the bar but I blocked it and she fell and I yelled to call the cops. Ruth wouldn’t let me cross the roominghouse steps without spitting on the ground for months after we broke up. And Laura would haul all my stuff out on the lawn, but bring it back in right before I got back from tour. The worst ones did their worst and there’s no accounting for how bad I treated them.
It’s a snug fit in her loft, she wraps those fine&strong legs around me. She really jams against me, grinding and rubbing her clit until she comes. She’s voracious. A Giselle. We lay there talking after and that’s always the best. There’s a small room across the yard. It’s lit red and the window’s open. We blow smoke out the window and talk and talk and talk. And laugh.
How sad it was, when she drove away from me at the Embarcadero. And I blew her a kiss and lit up a smoke. It was sad but I was so young. Invincible. We split, and all of life’s peccadilloes and tragedies and triumphs rushed at us, changed us. Refined us. That’s a love you know. You know it and you know you’ll never be back here again. She married and watched him die from his bedside. Had a kid. I’d been to every state in the lower 48 (barring South Dakota), trying to not be like my old man. Like him I kicked booze. 9 months sober.
I can’t believe it. I’m crying, holding her. We’re looking across the yard at the red room with its curtains blowing out. A humid fall night. Loving her like always. Slated to leave in the morning but could fuck it through Sunday.
“I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah.”
We fall asleep with me stroking her fine Giselle legs. All night I can feel her just outside the edge of my dreams.

Jim Trainer’s second full-length collection of poetry is out now through Yellow Lark Press.  Please visit jimtrainer.net to receive 1 of 83, poster-pressed, perfectly bound and signed copies of September.