You could never be my girlfriend.
I was only fourteen
and you were a young woman,
seventeen years old.
But we were friends, maybe even more.
You would sing “Born Too Late”
over and over again as if it were a refrain
and not just the title of a hit song by The Ponytails.
I think you were flirting with me.
You even taught me how to kiss
so I would be ready when
I met someone who was right for me.
We would practice, lips only
and then French kiss:
“That’s when you use your tongue,” you said.
That was how we spent the summer
at the beach in Far Rockaway.
I was too young to have a real girlfriend
and for some reason you never met anyone.
You told me how mature I was for my age
and then there was always “Born Too Late”
and you would laugh and say:
“Would you like to try that again?”