Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
To strongly, wrongly, vainly, love thee still.
~Lord Byron


After my shampoo, I ran a comb through, snagged my billet-doux and galloped out
doors to the bookshop where I could eavesdrop on her. Under pop-culture rags sprout

Basho, Keats and Ted ��twas this stuff she read, their bargain-bin bed excavated
text by tome for words like raucous jaybirds, songs wise or absurd. Tessellated

by her voice, the puzzle�d gelled. Lust unmuzzled, I wished to nuzzle her shoulder,
but dared not emote. I�d brought the love note with its Byron quote instead, bolder

in ink than swagger. My try to snag her (my need to shag her) was put to shame �
neglect to include a fly check, not shrewd! My leading man clued her to my game.



� 2004 by PJ Nights
previously published in PW Review