Whatever Happened to Sandy Posey?
Becoming a man in ‘67 was easy.
I had a newly grown wreath of hair.
A dream had beckoned my manhood,
stolen my virginity before sunrise.
My father was lost to the war,
claimed by the mysteries of Asian women.
My uncle was lost to the war,
filled with lead during Operation Hump.
It was the rite for the oldest to bump up.
Moving to Phoenix had brought rebirth.
It was hot and exotic. The open-air markets
bathed me in the ripeness of luscious smells.
A bass player’s thumb plucked sounds
that thrummed inside my lower half,
while a sweet voice seeped into
the airwaves and snatched my senses.
She was all alone in a great big town
and needed a nighttime lover
to get her through the day. No price
was too great to pay. There was a man
she had yet to know, waiting in a place
she had yet to go.
I stole the records and, when the songs
were not on the radio, played each 45 rpm,
over and over, until the abused grooves
could take no more.
I wanted to be her man, the banana in her mango,
the fresh cream on her morning peaches.
Sandy teased me all summer.
She was, after all, Born A Woman and A Single Girl.