You were the hot one
in a tight skirt
on the bench
dabbing delicately
into your sundae,
darting tongue carefully
consuming the creamy white.

I was the one
to whom you said
"Get lost, you freaky freak.
Stop following me.
Drop dead, creep."

I was so taken
by the almost-rhyme
as well as the crossing of your leg
atop pointed metal heels.
I can tell
you were thinking of me then.
Are you still now?

If so
please meet me
at the place
you took a swing at me.
I think there remains
some of my blood
on the pavement.
There was
at least
the last three times
I searched for you.

I’ll be waiting.