Medusa in San Francisco
Ok, I was a little nervous
in the airport, but I looked at her
right in her eyes, and sure
she had her hair up sometimes,
but why would that make any
difference? What I am saying
is that a thousand times I smiled
into her sweet face, at the restaurant
where the owner also took her hands,
in the sleepy park, at pizza—she
even drank some of my soda—in the bath
where I made love to her dirty hair, all that
and the moment of parting, waving
and waving at her, even when her head
disappeared up the escalator and then
her collarbone, hips, knees and perfect feet,
and my heart lost whatever small bits
of stone it ever could have had, and yes
time stopped and now everyone everywhere
looks like they are from out of Vigeland Park,
stone, sure, but smooth and naked and tangled.
WILLIAM WINFIELD WRIGHT
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