There was a time almost two winters ago
when I had a genuine love, but didn’t know.
A silly old man with his hair all gray,
he sat at my table every weekend day.

I never told him about the young lover in my bed,
so why not play a while with the old man’s head?
He gave me gifts and kind words to show his affection.
For seven months I let his heart move in the wrong direction.

One day I teased him, just me being me,
“Buy the white girl. Get a black one free.”
Then I ran behind the building to have a smoke.
The black girl knew it was just a joke.

Asking me to dinner brought my game to a halt.
I never did tell him that it wasn’t his fault.
I would never speak to him again after April or May,
and pretend not to know him even today.

He emailed a snippet of a Ray Charles rhyme,
“I love you in a place where there is no space or time.”
We really laughed our asses off that night.
Ain’t that some shit what old guys write!

I saw pain in his eyes with sad words unspoken,
while the girls laughed about the man I’d broken.
He gave me his heart in a written deed,
a useless thing I’d never want or need.

The white girl cost me my soul, to a friend he said.
Hail Marys help the living, but not the dead.
He told her I was his last love, my smile his cocaine.
His nightly torment was the sound of a southbound train.

His blue eyes faded after that sad October letter.
Some days I think I should have treated him better.
But I’ve got that young lover in my bed,
and it’s fun to fuck with an old man’s head.