Miguel’s Song

Polaroid sits askance 

on my chipped foil mirror

your lips bowed and Betty Grable'd

not quite a smile, nor an outright pout

your cheek allows my kiss, my hand

snug in your jean back pocket

rolling in late

never your perfect snapshot

of debonair and sobriety

smelling of cheap, dark wood venues

and even cheaper wing-tipped 

hangers-on 

literature and clever repartee 

I could never measure up

tattooed, dark-eyed Betty Paiges 

you would never compete

you just left me there

among the guitars

and hollow adulation.