THE GAP

Please don’t ask me
why I hate Gary Puckett
so damned much.
If you ask me the hard questions
I may have to provide
the hard answers.

And
do not invite me again
to the Cherry Pitt
where security
and the beers
are light
but the lights
and the girls
are dim.

And
for God’s sake
don’t tell me
that every girl here has been carded
since I can tell
that braces and acne scars
bridge the gap between them and us.

And please
please please
do not suggest
that the sweet young things
all around us
with underaged drinks in underaged hands
know what they’re getting into
when I,
a generation senior,
don’t know what I’m getting into
whenever tequila enters the equation.

These innocent creatures
are but one predator’s praise
away from the back seat of a rusty Impala
and, Lord help me,
I own an Impala
and can’t afford to impale
another babe with my wood.
Not tonight.
Not like this.

Don’t imply these shy suggestive sylphs
are not so innocent
and already speared.
They may all be more experienced than I
which says very little
and excuses nothing.
This is not a temptation
I hope to succumb to
– quite the reverse.

And yet
do not ask me
why I just spent so much time
in the bathroom.
Just…
don’t.