By the Numbers

#1 — At the Java Shack

A milky milquetoast, shy but amiable,
He traveled by train (two lines!) to reach me,
Only twenty minutes late.
We spend an hour; he's semi-chummy:
Veers away but then looks back.
Ill-at-ease, but so are pigeons
When the gyr-hawk wheels o'erhead.
A door left open: "You should call me."
Haven't heard from him again.

#2 — At Rappahannock

He got a ticket in the District
On his way to meet me here.
Soft-spoken Susquehannan man
Who splits his time with Ailing Mother;
Caretaker type, in other words.
Thoughts trickle out, and then the torrents
Flow as if a dam's been breached.
Untidy affairs of too-close family
Consume him in baby dragon-bites.
Time creeps by—it's hard for me
To shut his spigot; with hat in hand
I back away. We part outside. Once more I offer:
"Next time you're down—"
No further whisper from that quarter.

#3 — At Peet's in Shirlington

A waste of bus fare on my part.
Stiff as a joist, he's polite but terse;
After ten minutes, he makes excuses
And scampers away. Too many men
Want marble-y models well out of their league.
The harvest has ended; the fields are sallow;
The crop has been creamed and I'm left with husks.

#4 — At Rappahannock

A coffeehouse—less than ideal place
To rendezvous with the latest number,
For caffeine gives him a pain in the head.
A bundle of nerves, but loose enough
To chuckle (or giggle) from time to time;
Hands clasped together to keep them from breaking,
He prays for something I can't divine.
He wants to linger, but interviewing's
Best done in pieces, so I dismiss him
Benedictus—we shall see.

#5 — At Buzz (Ballston)

His sonorous voice impresses me—
A Stentor over the phone, although
He requires a script I can't supply,
For I know my lines from the heart; but his?
In his pauses I lose my own unmarked place.
In person he is cordial enough,
And yet, those lapses and falterings
So hinder his otherwise perfect speech—
His improvisational talents are nil.
With Siberian eyes and well-preserved features
(For one his age), he's desirable,
Which means that after thirty minutes,
He is gone. These one-date wonders
Deceive themselves with talk of friendship;
Such bally rot!
It doesn't matter how outgoing, bright,
Or congenial one happens to be,
Assessments of bodily merits win out.
They want what was foremost on Jupiter's mind
In Noel Coward's vintage musical opus,
And who can blame them for taking a pass?
They sniff me and smell my obsolescence,
They stare and see a cindery dud.
The things that I offer—loyalty, amity,
Trustworthiness, truth, and soulful solace—
Are worthless commodities in this era.

***

Oh, the wishy-washy fish
In the cesspool where I cast
My poorly baited line!
Some are screwy, some are torpid,
Most are blanks and largely benign.
All I need is one good swimmer,
Not too stinky, not too flashy,
Dependable and not too dim,
Some depth preferred—not overly trashy,
But not too prudish, either, you see:
A balance is always the quandary.

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By the Numbers