The First

She was not a fresh faced
honey girl from my class.
Nor a woman who 
took money to rid
college boys of their virginity.
It did not happen 
fumbling in the back of a car.
Or lay in the grass of a meadow
under a moonlit sky.
It was in her small walk up flat 
up three flights of dimly lit stairs.
I can still feel my legs weaken
In anticipation of the unknown.
Inside the untidy table
had a full ashtray
A half bottle of red wine.
A Picasso reproduction
Gargoyled from the wall.
She was full of experiences.
That I could only imagine.
She pulls a strip of condoms
from her night table.
The bedroom window
open wide.
The summer breeze
whispered 
Hush Hush 
It’s your time
It’s your time.
She took me softly.
Gently almost like a dream.
I cried out as my boyhood left me

Draining into her 
in its irrecoverable loss.
Outside the breeze
 had turned to wind
Blowing my uncertainty and doubts
far Into the night.
She was my teacher
and I her avid student.
Later the door closed
as I left her.
Her memory now
Indelibly burned on my soul.