Jack McGraw

The very first time I saw Jack McGraw
I said to myself, "I know how
This man is going to look if he lives to grow old"
Thought didn't scare me then, but it scares me now
I drive all night to see him down the long dark highways
Through the small dark towns up the hill to his place
And I find him asleep, stretched across the bed
Like a man in the habit of taking up space
"I love you, Jack," I say, "you are my favorite shirt
Fine linen, finely tailored, from the second hand store
But sometimes I wonder when you're next to my skin
About the night you might have spent damp and crumpled on the floor
And maybe that's beside the point, a little bleach, a hot dryer
And what about the tragedy of unpaired socks?"
Jack says, "Say that again in waltz time, without the metaphor"
"Jack," I say, "I love you like a rock"
And then we fight about geology, fight about apology, fight about astrology
About the solar plexus
We fight about the knowledge he invited out Paula Jean
In spite of protocol hedging
We fight about Texas
And I go to New York City, Jack goes to New Orleans
He calls me from Atlanta but I'm up in Montreal
So I leave a note in Memphis but he's on to Little Rock
I take a room in Saskatoon, I throw the phone against the wall
I buy the morning paper, read the weather and the horoscopes
And that's my only news of him, I'm searching for clues
And then Jack sends a letter that he wrote on a napkin after one drink too many
And I take that to be the truth
And I drive all night to find him past the cornfields in the moonlight
Past the deer in the headlights to the Tally-Ho-Tel
And I find him asleep, stretched across the bed
"I love you Jack," I say, and he says, "What the hell?"
And then I cry before the telephone, I cry before the magic fingers bed
I cry before the orange and green decor
And while Good Morning America charms the nation out of its dreams
I cry before the man who doesn't want me anymore

©1998 Annie Gallup