I am not musical
I can’t sing
Or play an instrument
But when I was fifteen I had a boyfriend John
Who was a classical guitarist
He bicycled from Westchester to the Bronx every weekend to see me
With his guitar strapped to his back
It took him two hours.
He parked his bike outside our apartment building
Rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and
Sat in my room on the edge of the bed.
Played Pachelbel, Bach
While I sat on the floor listening
And watched his fingers
When he took a break we kissed
Quietly so my mother wouldn’t hear.
One Saturday he stayed late
Asked if he could sleep in the living room so he wouldn’t have to bike home
In the dark
My mother said no.
So he left and
We drifted apart
The climate was not compatible with romance.