PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

You told me about sex.

Remember when we sat at the Officers’

Club swimming pool?

“I can’t get no-"

boom, boom, boom,

pounding from the jukebox under the club,

"satisfaction,”

boom, boom, boom,

echoing out of the open-aired basement,

sound rounding off the pillars and

wet concrete, slick.

That was where we’d get our suicide drinks.

The teenaged faceless person

would laugh when we’d ask for,

"The Suicide Special."

Dispensing all the flavors together

they’d hand it to us in tall paper cups,

straw and shaved ice,

our membership bracelet tags

clinking on the bar's counter top.

We sat and talked

at the metal tables heaped with towels

outside the chain linked fence

surrounding the laughing, screaming children,

splashes and whistles

and the smell of chorine,

the Alabama sun, hidden.

I never really liked you.

You made me feel small, dumb,

though I was 2 cup sizes

bigger than you

and sat at the front

of the class.

But, I didn’t know about sex.

I was 12, or almost 12,

Or maybe 10, or beyond 10,

but I didn’t know.

So, with two hands in the air

you showed me, being so knowing,

how sex was done.

You made an ok sign,

held it to the sky,

and pierced it with the index finger

from your other hand.

I rode home,

peddling in a blaze, sick

on suicides,

Rolling Stones, blaring

in my head,

with my new found knowledge.

I never really liked you.

You were my best friend.