White Rat

White Rat

they called her.

She had three strikes against her:
she was an albino,

she was the spawn of a preacher man,
and I can't remember what the third one was,

but it must have been a pretty good one because
she was a teenage pariah.

She always used to pick me on
ladies' choice slow dances

at her daddy's church, with
daddy nowhere in sight.

She would throw her arms around my neck,
wrap herself around me as we swayed to

"Theme from a Summer Place" or
"I Only Have Eyes for You."

Her moist lips would kiss my neck,
nibble my ear, and she would

press her pelvis into me, feeling me hard
against her, her thighs pressed tightly against mine.

I would savor each kiss, the feel of her white hair
against my ear for the allotted three minutes.

We almost never spoke.
I knew that she would do anything I asked.

But I never asked.
Why is it that now, after all these years,

She is the one I remember?