The Impossible Dahlia

I once met a girl from Biloxi:
Eyes green, hair red, girl foxy.
She wanted to talk
But I sputtered and balked
At that age I hadn't the moxie.

She had a great story that I have told elsewhere and will tell again sometime. Suffice it to say she seemed mythical to me. She seemed to have stepped out of the real world, where fantastic, dramatic things happen, to visit me in this half-warmed echo.

I have always been sick with jealousy of other lives, and I believe that always made me eager to love. Love promises some kind of vicarious indulgence in another life. I used to say that I fell in love not with people who were like me, but with people who were like I wished to be. By turns this meant beautiful, smart, cold, bitter, carefree. Perhaps this is always why opposites attract, this curious, wistful impulse.

There once was a wistful Wisconsan
Who wept when he pulled out his johnson.
It had a tattoo
That read, "Love me do?"
But lacked room to put a response in.