ON ALL THOSE SATURDAY AFTERNOONS

I fell in love with a married woman,
who smiled, because she knew.
I waited all week chomping at the bit
to meet with her in our romantic tryst
in my friend’s posh eastside apartment.
She snuck away from neighborhood eyes
to jump in my car blocks away from home.
Intimacy intense as it could be
often resulted in a burst of tears.
The unendurable impasse lingered
for the longest 5 years of my life.
We survived on stolen time.
When I rubbed her feet, her body
heaved like a warm water tide coming in.
We grew gray, wobbly on our feet,
but clung to each other for 70 years
riding the surf in the waters of Acapulco.
My coup de foudre of love ignited
an underground fire that still burns
like the heat in Centralia, Pennsylvania,
smoldering now after 6000 years.