He was on the stage, lights shining on his golden hair,
spangled shirt shooting stars into adoring eyes;
voice as smooth as ancient silk,
sliding and caressing every word,
fingers stroking sweet
notes out of his battered guitar.
And she was there, swaying with the music,
swooning with all the other under-thirty women
who crowded the stage, pulling their tops low to show
their cleaving, heaving breasts, tongues out and licking
pink, pink lips while they screamed and waved and danced
slow gyrating circles, begging his approval.
He saw her all right, she the one with the raven hair,
the black black eyes and legs that disappeared in mystery.
She met him at the back door after the show, falling
into his arms and lust that carried them both
down road after road, through town after town
for twenty-odd years and then
he was pushing seventy
and she was forty and seeing
the gold dye gone from thin gray hair,
the bent and gnarly fingers stroking only the cigarettes
he smoked one after another, lighting the next from the butt of the last.
Her hair still black with help from Miss Clairol, her figure trim
in tummy control pants and push-up bras,
she wonders where the time went, and the Big Star
in baggy pants,
watches CMT and Nascar and waits
for the calls that never come.
Inspired by a writing prompt.