A Prince should play an instrument,but never be played like one.
He should fall in love
like a rock star jumping off a piano,
and stay in love until he can’t
jump off pianos any more.
And though his bed may have
the feel of a mushy banana, the mattress
should be as firm as his jaw.
“You’re good,” she said.
I answered, “How good?”
“As good as a guitar string plucked
just right. Damn good.”
“But not good enough,” I said, “to keep my wallet
in my back pocket.”
“Aha! Is that why no one gets close to you?”
Touché.
She hopped out of bed like a cricket,
actually rubbed her left foot
against her right shin, and pointed at me,
“You’ve been here before; alive, living.”
“I see.” We’ve been at it too long, I figured,
staring at my legs, still tangled
in maroon sheets, every inch of this bed
displaying signs of what we could do in the dark.
The wise man keeps his secrets
beneath his bed, not on top.
“You were a Prince,” she said at last.
“No, no, no, Sweetie, I just like his music.”
She stared at me as if I were a letter
from an unrecognized address.
“Give me a hug,” I ordered.
When she emitted a wide-mouthed,
head-tilted laugh, I added, “Okay, so
I’d rather be loved than feared. Sue me.”
With that, she grabbed me like a cello
and began to play.
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