You never let me take you home. 
      Those sexy nights at Jolson's when I 
      stroked your leg and traced one finger down 
      along the underside of your long elegant neck, 
      you arched up toward my hand alive with pleasure. 
      The ends of the hair at the back of your neck 
      stood on end. 
      Your moussed black shock of perfect hair 
      stood on end. 
      When we kissed in the cab, 
      your languorous lips swallowed me up 
      with panting red pleasure and I begged you 
      to come home with me. 
      You almost did 
      until some snot-nosed boy 
      in front of Smiler's yelled, "Queers," 
      and you sped off in that hot yellow cab, 
      leaving that flaming red trail 
      of our hot yellow pleasure. 
      It was shortly after that, 
      you got married. 
      Society says it's a hatred of men. 
      Psychologists say it's a desire to be men. 
      Fundamentalist say it's abomination against nature. 
      Traditionalists say it's just a lousy attitude. 
      I say 
      you should have let me 
      take you 
      Home.

      (first published in Fireweed, 1993)