Permission
by Pasquale Trozzolo
As if something out of a sailor's dream, you walk in, like an actress, superior yet terrified—prey, hunted—eluding. That walk—maybe you were born with it, although likely an acquired trait, to compliment your red hair and accent. You speak in whispers—another of your movie star tricks, and it works, makes me get close.
Looking like you have something important to say, you charge toward me. Impossible to miss in that mini dress, my eyes follow—like a construction worker. That half-empty bottle of wine you're holding only adds to the allure. Heart pounding, I watch with an accelerating desire, thinking the sort of thoughts that might get me arrested. With no hesitation, you lean in close and whisper, "Follow me." Instantly I know I will never forget you.
What started quickly turned into—well, I don't know how to describe it. All I know is that I've been writing poems about you for decades—still, not sure if I'll ever be able to stop or forget. And the truth—I don't want to stop—or forget. I wonder what happens to you when I write about you this way. Can you feel it? Am I bad for it? You are not on my mind all the time. I don't want to see you again. I don't want you back. I don't want anything more. Just when I'm alone with my thoughts—can I have you?
Pasquale Trozzolo is a retired madman from Kansas. He also spent time as a racecar driver and grad school professor. His poems and short fiction have appeared in numerous journals, and The Poetry Box published his debut chapbook Before the Distance in December 2020. Still no tattoos—or MFA, he continues to complicate his life by living out as many retirement clichés as possible. https://www.facebook.com/poetpasquale