Always playing the boy circa 1977

You’d knock

on her bedroom door, as if

picking her up for a date.

She’d let you in.

Direct you to kiss her. 

No tongues,

pressing your lips together,

her lips were so soft. 

She was boy crazy -

you were her seventh grade practice.

Donning the boy clothes your mother didn’t like

deepening your voice.

She’d strut across the room

and press her lips to yours. 

You wanted to stand there forever,

to lose yourself in her lips,

then she’d say,

let’s try it again,

from that door or put this hat on

or say this or that. 

You’d swagger from the other direction,

say something else, 

then, the kissing. 

A respite from your shame.

She had to know your secret.