Ode to the Back Lots

In the back of the lot mid refuse of a lifetime,
waiting there, in the hopes he'd repair it sometime
when the boy was older and needed his own wheels,
the rites of pre-manhood, that head start on the seals
of approval from the girls' unanimous voices,
transport being foremost in making their choices.

Where had the years gone since he had parked it?
Miles away, in the check-out line at a market,
to the first of his many, time had been kinder.
She, breath taking beauty, was a joyful reminder
of love's intoxication, the caring and daring
to be one passion, days, nights, subsumed sharing.

Chattering around her were the fruits of union
with another. Forcefully expressing her opinion
left no doubt, the will he remembered, first hand,
had been honed with years of unresisted command,
a mother's sharp weapon, impatient tone's skilled
usage to get things done, alacrity instilled.

The sharpness of the jolt shocked him in his gut,
left no doubt in his mind it was she he saw, but,
he could not bring himself to reveal it was he.
Unsure of reaction, indecision let things be
as they were, as they had been these years between
the first time he saw her, and a check-out's fateful scene.

What is it with "first" love and the psyche of man...
be it car or sweetheart, he will never understand
passionate enjoyment to the full doesn't mean
the first lasts forever. The first, when it's seen
in retrospect, is more psychology than true
love, although professed to be "it", his life through.

So searching the back lots of home place or his mind,
the briefest inspection enables one to find
what's parked out of sight, was never forgotten,
his focus of "first" love, rusty, maybe rotten,
reminding of fairer, yesterday's glory,
is passion's manly prologue to love's story.

--Don Juan de Feu



copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved