I had crazy summer hair,
curled from sweat,
when Em took my picture
and said I looked like Robin Williams.

It was your birthday, too, and I
was everybody’s Happy Buddha,
nobody’s MacArthur,
as the last cinder fell on Riverfront
to the star spangled music of a thousand
cars going nowhere.

A parking garage hour is enough
to remember the night you hated
your new haircut, short and tapered
in the back, and I drank
so much my eyes crossed.

Sake and vodka, that’s a lot of alcohol
for one drink, but not enough to forget
a field marshal and bass drums marching
up the theatre aisle. I could have
touched them.

I could have touched your hand
as we walked along darkened shops,
stopping to look at sleeping cats
and someone else’s wedding dress.

I could have told you, but only
stood there cross-eyed while you
and your haircut were beautiful
in the Village windows.