By Terry Godbey
Waiting outside the liquor store,
we beg young GIs to buy us wine,
working them over with candy smiles
and hip-huggers so tight
they’d unzip if we sneezed.
“Be cool,”they say, “we could lose our stripes
for this.” We seize the brown-bagged magic
and thank them like good girls.
But we are bad girls,
passing the bottle before the game
and gagging on apple wine
till the delicious burn comes on.
Faces swim past
in the blur of stadium lights,
the popular boys pinball about the field.
They will strut into the party later
and we will be waiting
though we fear the advancing army
of hands, pity them their mighty urges.
We dance along the edge, and they wait
with nets held out in case we fall.
Secretly we want to jump
and they know it, especially the boys
who like us only a little, the boys
who drive fast cars.
“Hop in,” one of them will shout,
but in the bumble of his affections
I’ll think about the men
who sprang for our dizzy fun
and wonder how it would feel
to run a hand
over biceps the size of pool balls,
the mown lawns of buzz cuts.
This poem appears in Terry Godbey’s first poetry collection, BEHIND EVERY DOOR.