When the doorbell rings hours before
my stay-at-home, Covid-wake-up-time,
I remember the kidney clinic scheduled
a nurse to come by, safely collect urine
and blood. While walking to the door
a recent phone conversation with Michael
hovers around the edges of my mind.
He wanted me to chip in, help him hire
a hooker for Ted, lying listless in bed
somewhere in Jersey, content to commune
with his misery since June. Mike suspected
a little lively company would lift his spirits,
inject him with energy. I show the nurse in.
gesture toward the couch, carry my desk chair
over and ask for the cup. I need to go bad.
When I told Michael no and confessed
I’d never been with a hooker, he called me
a cheap moral piece of shit. Not fully awake
and walking behind her, I imagine the nurse
slowly stripping off her mask, turning into
the perfect blend of Klute and Pretty Woman
with light brown skin, the lilt of a Hispanic
accent, a walk-on in Spike Lee’s upcoming film.
I didn’t tell Michael I never saw sex as sex,
pure, clean, simply cock, pussy, ass, legs,
lips, fingers, a need to fulfill, an ache
to soothe for an hour or two, complete,
wonderful all by its lonesome. I always
suspected something was seriously wrong
with me, but never managed to fix it.
I sign a form, roll up my left sleeve.
Sometimes when I’m lying in bed, I picture
the women, who I like to call the Magnificent
Seven, shimmering in big screen Technicolor,
that I loved enough to spend nights, mornings,
weekends, in and out of bed with, but fuck,
I’ve mostly forgotten that feeling, except it
always faded a bit too quickly and left me
sadly missing it. The nurse came all the way
from Florida in late April when Covid started
to overwhelm the city. Staying with a sister,
she’s making triple her salary. When I’m lonelier
than usual, I list the names of women, girls
in my head-four sure things, a dozen likely
possibilities-that I could have easily fucked.
I say I never knew nurses went door to door.
Please, be gentle, it’s my first time. She doesn’t
bother to fake a smile. Those women? Either
I couldn’t imagine finding a single thing to say
as I dipped lightly toasted rye in runny, sunny
side eggs as we sat in a booth at the corner diner
for breakfast or were too beautiful, cool for me.
The nurse pauses, warns me this will pinch a bit.
When I want to wallow in loneliness, I think
of Julia, my first girl friend. Freshman year
college, desks in a circle, Composition I.
While I cut classes, played schoolyard
basketball, she pursued a nursing degree,
worked part time at the Peter Pan Bakery,
talked about moving in together.
I hold the door open, thank the nurse
as she waits for the elevator. No I won’t
try to describe the way I felt anytime
Julia caught me staring as she pushed
her long, down-past-her-ass-hair behind
her ears, opened her text book, licked
her lips looking for the right page.
But I remember climbing on the Q17,
taking the seat next to her and she started
talking, touching my arm, again. When
I mentioned my overdue report, the art
museum, she said she’d love to go, Thursday
her one free day. We spent nine months
in my basement making out with Harvest
and For Everyman spinning on my stereo,
lying on blankets at Kissena Park or Jones
Beach with her Irish skin blushing pink,
in the back of her mom’s station wagon
or that weekend sleeping under stars
in a Little League field outside the barn
her Jesus freak sister lived somewhere
just west of Lancaster Pennsylvania.
Me, too timid to go any further, no idea
what to do next. Neither one of us
ever finding words to try and talk
about what we were both dying to do.
In today’s movie, the nurse is Julia.
We recognize each other immediately,
say everything we never said back then,
laugh and pretend it’s funny, all hints
of sadness long gone. Weeks later, I write
a poem, send it to Michael and he laughs,
edits the heart out of it. Ted tells me
he loves it, never listen to fuckin’ Flanagan,
stays in bed, living on peanut butter and beer,
says he’s hanging on but doesn’t know why
as I curl deeper into my thoughts, wondering
if big parts of my life would have been easier,
less lonely if I had made clumsy, fumbling,
heartfelt love again and again to Julia back then.
