He drove an old battered Taxi
and tried to pick me up
every time I walked home
in the midnight rain. I had
very long hair in 1978,
and most people
thought I was a pretty girl.
In truth, I was a scared to
death
gay young man. Worried about
everything, and not sure
about anything.
I loved his blue eyes and
wicked smile, but never
managed to accept his
free ride: I knew the price
would become much too high
once he learned the truth
about me. So I kept on walking
and his sweet whistle was
like the soundtrack to some
favorite black and white movie
I used to love, but no longer
can remember the name of.
Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell
