"The Paperboy."
At 12, you still had no breasts.
What you thought then I can only guess,
but courting you from my bicycle in an empty lot
until the traffic thinned out, turned on its lights,
made me late too often.
Well, the job was a drag, nickel dime,
like the romance I imagined.
I was a fish in love with your personal eyes.
I did tricks.
Who cares about breasts?
Your mother called you in.
And I went home with my hand, like blue fire
where it touched your chest.
I dreamed I swam above rooftops, overturned
hulls calm in the air.
I'd forgotten.
But last night, there I was again,
submerged bird, a reversible fish,
looking up or down at the chimneys, your woman's face,
me calling, do you have children?
And you-- help me find them.
And I seeing the empty lot, the bicycle,
do you have any children?
And you-- give me some breasts, even little ones.
And I saying, you missed your chance,
there are none left anywhere.
Then swimming off through the smoky air,
leaving the bicycle, the papers, your face sinking
into the insistence of your mother's voice
and the darkening ground.