when wisdom intervenes

could you love someone like that,
with her prairie dresses, and black
floppy hats, you thought, as you shivered
in the basement on the hard futon

of her guest room, that wasn't
a guest room, but a storage bin
of old clothes, diaries stuffed
under the bed, and magazines

from the nineteen eighties,
that wobbled in small towers.
your head seemed to be lower
than your body in this bed.

your stomach the peak, your legs
from the hips down, tilted
towards the floor as if in a dentist's
chair, prone and ready for the needle.

could you love this person,
in the room above you, asleep,
perhaps, as the moon shot through
the window with a surreal

vibrancy. this woman who never
seemed to let wisdom intervene
in her choices of life.
the farmer in Kansas with bad teeth,

the obese man, she called the pornographer
with his labeled movies.
threesomes, foursomes, whips
and chains. blondes and redheads.

and now you, how did you fit in.
could you love this woman
who chased intruders in the dead
of night in her pajamas,

running after them in her
bare feet with only her screams
of anger to defend her. somehow
the answer was yes.

the irish in her. the steely
eyes, neither blue or green.
the dark hair that curled around
her impish ears. how she read

and read. no radio, no t.v.
you were in a time portal.
but you knew it was short lived.
at some point you had to return

to your own century.