Homecoming, sixteen

I workshopped the first draft of this poem 27 years ago and am *still* fiddling with it. As my dad quoted to me today, "A poem is never finished, only abandoned." (Paul Valéry)

Bored and cold, we watched blue bulks
of rushing man slam rushing man.
You tapped on bleachers, your fingers thin
falling, twice, to touch my hand

and grasp it when we left the game
and saw your white car’s window smashed.
Before we sucked the inside bare
you swished through shards to find your stash.

At home, you call your dad, and wait
your head in my lap, my fingers then
(while blue-robed mother fades back to bed)
smooth across your sallow skin. 

Night of the dance, you pick me up
slim black tie, limp-neck rose.
Slowing in a tight cul-de-sac
selling acid to orange-lip girls.

My window up, they mouth silent words.
I squeeze my hands together, hair curled, neck pearled.
Undertone, I hear you say, Those idiots paid too much
and the money flutters as you turn the wheel.

After, we went to dinner:
brownly-lit golf-course cuisine.
After, I don’t remember much
but dancing little, and feeling obscene.

Your hand against my velvet back, saying
You’re a snob.