for H., salesman, teacher, friend

There’s something about a love affair that starts
during the Eisenhower campaign: she was wearing 
an evening gown, Swiss polka-dotted, a la Mamie,
tame to you, the New England Brahman thought, 
“Here’s my chance,” though neither of you believed in such.
At least there was commonality, and the edge of her slip,
winking a half-inch below the hem when she bent 
the slightest bit of lace, a high heat pricked your cheeks.
You offered your hand when the registration was through 
and through a gentleman, the two of you proceeded
as a snapshot from the days when every man worth his salt 
was found opening doors. This lady first and foremost,
the rest just stops along a route, and you their door-to-door boy,
behind you bored housewives not willing to buy,
teenagers ten years younger.  Through every town 
the radio seemed to broadcast your mother’s stern voice
Warning “Caution, son, caution” but you did not listen
for the first time under an I-Like-Ike sky.
Out-generaled by the culture of her pearls, the open palm 
she held out for you, motioning easily into a June in Bermuda, 
the unfolding pink blanket of beaches beneath you, 
bare her shoulders, you wore your honeymoon smile,
slightly lopsided with the fifties of it, never aware 
of three sons and boarding school summers 
ahead, life was still your drive-in movie, you at the wheel, 
she, waving through a white spray of rice from the passenger’s side.

© 2004 by Melanie Faith. All rights reserved.