for Edie Adams in paradise

this is a poem. it’s a love poem.

I'm no saint, but

I’ve had loves taking shapes

like chameleons warm-colored

and cold-colored, sensual and mean

mean-spirited like the vultures

who pounced upon you for your money

for the money Ernie owed to the banks

and all the unpaid bills, and they took

your money, too the bastards!

so I’m dreaming of you, Edie, of your tight

dress, and I know it’s not right

to be so superficial, and there are other

dreams, I know, but not right now. not tonight.

tonight it’s your face like an angel’s face

and your legs making nylon act like another

layer of skin and your ass, the ass five hundred

starlets wish they had but they don’t, Edie.

It’s only your ass for my kisses from now

until as far as light can see which is 15

quintillion miles. look it up. but who cares

because tonight,–– tonight Edie it's you

and me and your face and your legs

and your ass and lord have mercy!