jeopardy

Summer '95 in Tallahassee -

driving winding roads

in an 85 Hyundai

with no A/C

and I wear the black pants

and white button down

of the movie theater

concession-stander

in jeopardy of heat stroke.

The concessioneer's uniform 

making no concession

for the sultry soul-sapping

100 degrees.

A service job which did not serve

but for beer money.

The reward of

paltry paycheck,

stale popcorn,

and free films

mitigated by sorry selection.

The main attraction,

three theaters full,

mightily making parents aplenty

miss morphine.

And one tiny screen

with only late screening

for the rom-com.

And there would I

disappear.

Melt into the seats

and glorious anonimity

and fade into the flickering:

Kevin Kline

in black jeans

sporting a faux French accent

which made my 18yr old

cœur sing avec each "Oui, le je-o-par-dee"

et "Oui, BAAAAAB."

I'd giggle with each crinkle 

of Meg Ryan's button nose

and believe, in my 18yr old cœur,

that I was learning what love could be.

A vineyard on a hillside in France

with a man who holds your hand.

(I still think it could be.)