I'm watching a silver ankh with colonel-wings insignia
soldered to it, staring as it swings from the rearview mirror.
Loop-and-crossbar shadows spin, while the Rolling Stones
sing "Wild Horses" on the tape deck. The ankh and chain
were presents from my first leave after Air Force basic.
A woman I was with was breaking up, and gave it to me.
That unhappy Christmas, she said, It means Enduring Life.
I was 18, she was (maybe) 16. But she was my first love.
For years, I would watch it swinging and remember her.
I turn off the Firebird. The 8-track falls quiet, mid-song.
My wife Sherry and I get out. Sherry holds her holiday loot
in her hands. For now, I leave mine in the backseat. In the bags.
Inside, snow is in her hair. In mine. We shake it off, though
this may be becoming a moment wild horses couldn't drag
from you or keep you from. We hang up our winter coats.
I grab a Heineken. Sherry is standing in the kitchen light.
We kiss. Then kiss again. And I hear a car door open.
I look out a window. Outside, gusting wind sounds
like someone whose speech has been marred by a stroke.
The dome light inside the Firebird is blazing in the lot below.
I'm out the door and down the stairs, shouting and swearing.
The thief hears me. Raises up. And I see him as the shape
sprinting with a boxed blue dress shirt under his arm. I run
after him. Under a streetlamp at street's end, he pulls up.
I'm close enough to see he has the shirt and the ankh.
Then I'm watching as he drops the shirt. Takes off.
Don't tell me, all these years later, I should have
gotten over the theft. Don't talk to me about loss.
Hanging onto anything is an art. It may be foolish,
given that what a thief will drop isn't worth having
and what he keeps is about what you thought it was.
Maybe it's that both these women are lost to me now.
Maybe risk and recovery are two stones we roll forever.
I know I see sailboats on a shirt and think, This is life:
not getting what you want but wanting never to lose
what bandit-Time has left you, besides breathless.