I met Moreen in March of ‘94.
I was doing what I never did.
I was going on a date with Moreen.
We met in the personal section
of the newspaper.
We chatted for over a week.
I sent her a picture in an email.
Moreen did the same.
Her deep blue eyes jumped
from behind the freckles
that camouflage her sun-kissed skin.
Moreen’s long, dark red hair
wrapped around her neck.
She pressed her luscious red duck lips.
I wanted to satisfy the hunger
her lips had passion.
In the back seat of a taxi,
I tossed around
what I’d say
when I saw Moreen
in the flesh.
I fixed my collar
and memorized the thick haze
that replaced the nothingness
with a cascade of hope
roped into a vested interest
of ending false starts.
I erased the worries
leaking panic from my self-esteem.
What was beyond there rolled off my tongue,
coming undone before our hands embrace.
Moreen’s home rested on Englewood Hill.
The midnight oil ground to a halt
as the town awakened, so too did the fog escape
in the eyes of passersby from another sleepless night.
Moreen’s two-story home was nicer than she’d described.
I grew up on the lower-middle-class side of the city.
We had little besides each other, Mom, Dad, and Jessica.
And I never misled Moreen.
I was a former soldier with a knack for writing stories.
I had more than I needed and more love
from God than I deserved.
Moreen opened the door
and spilled her radiance through my pores.
Our eyes engaged in a battle
to express our adoration
without a hint of obsession.
I realized the journey
said more about us
than whether this worked out.
But it worked out because
we’re all here, reminiscing over it.
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