An Evening in L.A.

Dinah Shore was hardly a throb; but a gift,

two comps to her show, cast frames of reference

for the date I recollect with Ruth—

an instant crush as arm to arm we clapped

each time the prompter blinked Applause,

cheek to cheek we chortled when it flipped

to Laugh—then became ourselves again at Quiet Please.

In my car afterward, the make-up and the brilliance

of the sets jumped-cut our silences.

We stopped at an Italian place off Sunset—

the image values (checked tablecloth, bud vase,

solo candle) perhaps explain why I recall

resemblances to Frances Rose—a face

haloed in blondish hair blazed with russet,

the candor of a country girl

beckoning amid vaults of maize—and able to elicit

secrets I never admit. I teased

from her that she’d grown up back East—

or does the vision mixer of the head connive

to cross disparate myths I collect,

altering history to script? The Soave

(floral tones, forbidden fruit) also took effect—

when she dipped a morsel of the sourdough

into balsamic, I looked down her dress, the bows,

buttons in fashion then, and thought Mulholland Drive—

but she patted my hand (hint of brothers, retribution)

so we took my Chevy to the ocean.

Santa Monica Pier: hips a-brush, eyes to the sea,

gleaning fractured waves of neon light.

In the Rotor, we stood at opposite pads

of the barrel and when it spun, the floor dropping free,

I was on my back and high above, against the blue felt,

a fiery wingspan of hair, my dyna-Ruth klieg-lit

and distant. Our one date fades

to an end-of-show kiss. So many dots have slipped

from memory, save these outtakes of sleep.