the rain in spain

m calls , he's been fantasizing
about me all week. at disney,
in the short line of universal
studios, as he tucks his granddaughter
into bed. he asks if i've been
doing the same. my intellect
excites him so much. i tell him my
fantasy about him is that he's so rich
and he owns a lear jet
he could take me to barcelona
a place i've always wanted to see.
he is nonplussed for a moment
then recovers quickly and says that may
be possible. but what do i think
he should do about this
right now it not being possible
to fly me to barcelona without a passport
which indeed i do not have. i tell him
stay where you are. we've been
thru this m, i am not fucking you
the first time i meet you.
you haven't changed your mind have you?
and he hasn't. he wants it in writing
post haste, double stamped money back guarantee.
/i think one kiss will convince you
i will wager one hundred to your one/
and i tell him i can get quite competitive
and i don't like losing bets
so maybe he shouldn't wager with me
on this particular subject.
and on and on he tries to convince me
otherwise and he brings up all his money
/tell me/ he says / one thing that is better
without it/
how about knowing if someone likes you for you
or your money? how about art?
that's two, which he quickly shoots down
with more of his scorpioish continental ennui.
that's when i tell him people
with money and i usually don't get along.
/well you have my number/
and it's true, it's on my caller id
/i have 3500 hundred square feet
looking out over the atlantic and we could
watch the full moon rise
over the ocean and bathe us with silvery light
as we explore each other.
call me if you change you change your mind/
but i think his number will fall off the face
of my phone before i do.