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.