Renegade
ode to Lorenzo as “Reno Raines” and Mindless TV
I
Your six two, one eighty eases
these bleary eyes that brighten
for pretty things, and the screen
adores every inch and pound.
You throb this old girl’s eyeballs
now that David Hasselhoff’s
Baywatch is rendering up reruns
of reruns; your Renegade
dismisses my school daze.
A martial artist, kicking in heads,
then beautifully escaping
the corrupt cops that would
corrupt your loveliness
in a gray cell, and leave
your fresh flesh rotting on death row,
victim of their frame-up.
I tingle like a school girl watching your long legs
and bulbed muscles. Your divine face proves God.
Angels sigh when you speak. From hair to boots
you remind me that there is so much more
to pleasure than is dreamed of by
nervous network executives.
I’ll write you into the script of my poems,
because your form is blazing
across the marquee of my mind.
II
In my temple of dreams
you carry candles
& light up Indiana
& the church swells with voices
of answered prayers.
Although I’ve never motorcycled,
I’ve a mind to hog now that I’ve caught
your long hair stroking your shoulders
& that shadow of Latin manhood
stressing your sleek jaw.
I fancy I’ll ride with you awhile.
My body tight against yours
as you whisk us off to—oh,
maybe San Diego or Mexico.
III
Your divine face proves God,
and angels sigh when you speak.
The cleverest magician could not conjure up
the magic your image impresses on my soul.
I’ve known beauty in the human form before,
or at least I thought I had: the gods of Greece
flicker in the light of your Latin flame.
But you were not born with the silver
spoon of beauty in your mouth:
you’ve pumped iron and jogged,
and grown lean on dinner salads. your
appearance in Grease affirms
your youthful form clothed itself in baby fat;
that mute, blond, Nordic jock
you portrayed did not hint
at the solid rock
of muscle you stock,
and long,
slim lines
you draw now.
A slightly different version of this poem appears in my collection Turtle Woman & Other Poems
Linda's Literary Home 