I like the way you play your guitar.
That’s what I said the first time we met—
there’s no explanation for being this corny—
just love or deception.
So,	

				under the viaduct, 
	under the old/railroad bridge of our ancestors/
	immigrant steelworkers/slaves of Carnegie/
	we rocked the back seat of a ‘69 Chevy/
	you pulled my chuck taylors/your jeans were long gone/
	goodbye to cotton/the rolling stones teeshirt/
	we’re spinning in lust and oh
	steamy back windows and nothing 
	can stop it/the rolling and tearing/
	machine shop of love, love—


its big plans/blue eyes/its you/
looking straight through the body/
in search of the heart/for two
weeks I waited until I proposed/ 
Let me think, you said/but no—


					the body,
it has its own light/own scent/
own can’t-turn-your-back-on-it-glue/
I’ll wait, I said, and did—

				
				for the touch 
of your hair, the tender of hands/I love 
the way you play your guitar/
compression/precision/ the rock & 
burn of it/the playing the/yes, you said—

Listen to a reading of the poem.