Whatever Happened to Sandy Posey?

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.