breasts pointed up your arm.
Only one, discreet -- teen without bra, demure,
finely etched between ankle and knee.
You don't question why she poses half nude.
Think her a student
reduced to modeling, topless
dancing -- but not turning tricks.
All for a masters degrees,
probably in psychology,
so she can test children
whose parents drink too much.
If those kids memorize the presidents,
Gettysburg Address, win
enough spelling bees, they'll be deluged
with scholarships, go to college.
Become alcohol counselors, latter day
Carrie Nations swinging axes
of sobriety. They'll help drunken parents
realize kids must have
skateboards, designer jeans,
cell phones, call waiting,
a whole supply of friends
to put on hold.
You cling to belief
most lovers find happiness
with only one mate. Form unions
lasting a lifetime. Continue
to dance, talk, joke,
most certainly share hopes
and hurt well beyond
those first-date kisses filling jeans
with sparks you believe
kindled true love. You are not the first
to have such hope.
You are not the first to drink alone.