Tyne of Cortland

I briefly knew a girl years back
whose taste I never learned.
We'd met through a friend
who went to the same school
as her in western New York
tucked beneath the Finger Lakes
one of which I've swam in, I believe.
A few forgettable phone conversations
one brazen Friday night
was all it took to lure me to
the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked
beauty whose impressive literary knowledge
was only surpassed by her canned beer consumption.
The boxes had been extra heavy at the warehouse that day
and I was in search of a blessing, only finding a disguise.
When I got there three hours later
after deciphering her barrage of drunken messages
my ravenous Zelda had already found her Scottie Fitz
for the night. I settled for a twelve pack that cost more
than the thirties that the undergrads around me
were pounding and found solace in that friend of mine--
the person, not the suds.

I can't remember what she looks like now-- at least
not well enough to picture her in my head
but I do recall that she was named after
a river in England that is probably just as cloudy
as my vision was back then. There are some failures
for which we should be grateful. As for me and mine
we shall.


Currently reading:
"The Voice Imitator" by Thomas Bernhard