shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

David Spicer

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Nadine, eight years older than I, hired my sister
to babysit her red-headed stepson, flattered shy me
to Ann Arbor but with a twist of jerky hanging
from pale pink lips: she nominated her cousin Marti
my girlfriend before the three of us tanned near a beach.

That weekend I remained quiet as a dead telephone,
and both women later agreed I was a brainless monk,
a wallet with no ID. And to think all I had desired
was a ride on the Trailways to the Fillmore East
and a ticket to watch Moby Grape open for the Stones.

Then I could have harmonized on refrains,
not worried about these two almost strangers
judging me with eyes of silence for my silence
that yearned to sing 2000 Light Years From Home.