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 one bedroom
place nestled at the tree line behind the Diag.
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.
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