Black Leopard
You didn’t so much pounce into my life
as you tiptoed toward me in the Acme produce aisle
where you worked, putting yourself through college.
I thought you were rare—you relished starry nights,
gourmet Chinese, Phillies games, Mummers Parades.
Caramel-colored curly hair, never surly,
just modest, kind, a dream guy
until you backpacked through Europe one summer
and changed stripes. You learned how to run fast—
from job after job, drinking in moderation, me.
So I learned to speak two more languages,
headed to Europe on my terms and stayed for five years.
Only now, after forty years do I think of you,
as my poetry material dries up; you’re a mere writing exercise.