Mim Summerfield in paradise

It’s the mid 70s on the early side

and revolution is in the air.

Mim was a regular at the Bluegrass Saloon

on West Liberty, where

our contemporaries gathered to exchange

money for beer.

Mim was smart, active in the politics

of our time, and overwhelmingly desirable.

her grandfather was Postmaster General

in the Eisenhower Administration,

adding a sense of political intrigue to her persona.

we had a short-lived, but fast-lane affair which

took us from West Liberty, to East University,

to the banks of the Huron, then to a little two bedroom

place nestled at the tree line behind the Diag where

Mim's roommate,.. ah, Candice, the daughter

of the nosey landlord, also resided.

on the last night of our union, we found ourselves

inside the saloon's back room where the proprietor held an inventory

of the quick sellers; the rack whiskey, bar scotch, and cheap tequila,

stationed near the stairs to the basement where the aluminum

kegs were kept cold and ready to tap.

It was mid-June and sweltering.

Mim was slick and mobile, a counterweight to my clumsy aggression,

and although we were both perspiring, hers was a sweet perspiration,

an anisette extract with a dark rum additive which when applied,

evaporated on the tongue, and–– well,

not solely because of, but largely due to the indelible imagery

of another time, in another place, this dedication is proffered.