Saturday Night in Corpus Christi

Margo I met on the sidewalk on the way
to Rexall's for a James Bond paperback.
Three Saturdays later, "Margo," I said,
"I've got some money; you've got some too.
Let's go see Sam and skip the talk
down by the T-heads tonight--"
                        (Two Saturdays later,
the quarter moon had brokenly scratched chalk
around the calm Bay, while the boat clunked
lonely, letting go its corded hawser.)
Though we were dark and tan, we were not
prepared to be so light, wading into this sea,
all these faces, Caribs and Creoles.
Sam got us lively. Slide dancing, I was
brushed by Margo's hair: lank and long.
There we were slide dancing and I,
trading glances with her wild, steely eyes.
Sam kept us lively. On our feet.
For we were too young to be hugged up
in the bleachers buying set-ups like
old folks did and stayed crazy just the same.
Sam, after summer I went back
to live in L.A. You did too.
Sam, I forgot Margo. And you?
You were shot. Gave your life for love.
And, damn it, Sam, after these
thirty-odd years, with all these singers
pitiably self-destructed, you were one
of the last with a natural passion no drug would kill.
Oh yes, Sam, let the good times roll.

Charlie Dickinson