Men shamble up, sheepishly grinning,
or wear their swaggers like an expensive suit.
I search their faces for a resemblance to my own,
the point of my chin, the exact shape of my eyes.
They are all my father,
none of them are my father.

They give me money, and I walk down
the dusty road to the theater,
seeing every movie that comes through town;
I sneak in a side door,
sink low in my musty red plush chair,
watch the tide boil over Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr.
The lights dim, always, as the lovers kiss themselves to bed.

Sitting in the dark I imagine my mother,
pulling closed the shades. She drapes
her arms lazily across his shoulders, dances slow.
She is Elizabeth Taylor, Hedy Lamarr; men fall
in love with her, they can’t help it.
She gives them what they need,
what they can’t find anywhere else.

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