When I first met you, darling,
you were an awful little bitch,
spoiled, living on Daddy’s money,
there beside the swimming pool
with your full, your bouncy little tits
contained in a scant bikini,
and you treated me like some
Mexican gardener, ordering me
about like a peon, so of course
I stomped out, angry, incensed,
past the jacarandas and the BMWs,
but you came running after me,
said you were not that kind of girl at all.
There was no way your family
would allow us to get together,
so we had to meet in out-of-the-way places:
burger bars, shopping malls, Starbucks.
I had a little car, a Rondeo.
You winced when you saw it.
Never mind, it moved, we went
skimming along the coast, laughing,
in love with life, so giddily
in love with one another.
We talked about everything,
your parents, my parents,
the total unfairness of life,
and then we kissed and hugged,
and you let me put my hand on your breasts;
trembling, I squeezed them ever so gently,
my whole being in my fingertips,
and once, only once, you touched my cock.
We were in love. Anything could happen.
Why did you do it? Why?
The first I heard was when my father said,
you know that girl you talked about,
she went and killed herself. Pills.
