If I was born earlier I’d have stalked you, kissed your poster every night like a sneaky little school girl, Fridays, with tongue, let you slap me around like young men do when they are wrestling with love. I'd be your happy-go-lucky bimbo. Let’s make out, hard core. I’m as clean as your eyes are blue. You can smoke in my house and try your lines on me. I’ll buy you those cowboy boots you saw in the window downtown, watch you yank them on and strut around wearing them with just your underwear.

I’d be a 1978 leather jacket, or disco polyester jumpsuit. I would have fit my lips into the cleft in your chin like I was kissing heaven’s magical son, breast fed, of course. I'd enjoy the bad boys you have boiling up inside.

Sure, you’d love me. Sure, I might have better luck loving a prisoner, but when I saw you in those tight jeans, that cowboy hat marked by your sweet smell of sweat—Man, oh man, did I feel like a god. (In my dream, I fall asleep with the hat over my face, inhaling you, exhaling you.) Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. In my second dream, I am you. I am surprised by the thickness of your/my hair.

Oh, that Saturday Night Fever. It's my mother's fault that I love you this way. The night of my conception she was looking over my father's shoulder at you in that tight white suit jutting your fingers across your toned body, electrifying the big screen. Was she humming How deep is your love? Imagining the incarnation of your name's Italian translation: High voltage.

Do you ever rummage through old videos to rediscover time rewound when everything about you was fresh and fearless? John, you must see yourself smiling back at yourself from the past and sing in sync with your sway-Got the wings of heaven on my shoes. I’m a dancing man and I just can't lose.
I'm stayin' alive.

I decided early on to be a cowgirl or own a discotheque. Either way, I’d sooner or later, without regard to others, get me a man with an ass like that.