Convergence

Those blue eyes had girls from the muddy

Mississippi shores running for a fishing pole.

Me, I was hooked on a feelin’.

Your eyelashes had me ready to dangle

my innocence over the waves of your waterbed.

Two years later, a White Knight in tight Levis,

you whisked a microdot-laced damsel

away in your faithful ’72 Beetle.

I wanted to be the sunrise in your tequila,

lick those rivulets of water from your abdomen,

and melt plutonium with our passion…

So I left town.

But you can’t outrun an avalanche

or abort cartwheels mid-turn.

Traveling separate directions was fine,

because time after time, the compass needle

spun us around that straight line,

where like the Mississippi and Missouri rivers,

we converged.