In front of Notre Dame, shy and sly,
With an awkward, a kind of duckward walk,
That young clochard edged up to women tourists

Now LeRoy on the kill room floor
Was almost larger than life.

Until he followed her into the stairwell
of the parking garage, he was no one.

I was watching the last minutes
of the ’76 Summer Olympics when

Don’t forget that while my legs
were clamped around the mule’s
ribs climbing a defunct

In Reykjavik that year the bomb
talks failed, but we survived among
the sweet dead leaves that lay along

It was our favorite game. My sisters and I
escorted him to the usual place
at the foot of the stairs. His slicked-back hair

In the hissing air, two lovers lie
with rain and mist, the trees rinsed
in soft transmissions of static.

My less erotic god condemned
my taste for girls less classical
than you, the kind that can’t resist

Cool spring, and a fine freshness,
burred and fruity airs along Canal,
and a dimpled face, scowling then