The first swooned for "Poetry Man"
in the Ahmanson balcony.
The second wore a yellow sundress
when she introduced me to her boyfriend;
the Moody Blues got me through that.
The third squeezed me in an elevator, in a parking garage;
Frank Sinatra in her apartment.
The fourth loved to snap fingers to "Brickhouse"
in black underwear in my '63 Buick.
The fifth spiked volleyballs and let me put
George Harrison on her record player.
I met the sixth in a Music Plus;
she had Las Vegas legs
and a 6' 5" co-habitant.
The seventh drove with a calculatedly careless
blue blouse button and Julio Iglesias in the car.
The eighth's nipples imitated
Carly Simon's "You're So Vain" cover.
The ninth was blessed with adorable chocolate lips
along with the desire
to be a gospel-singing missionary.
The tenth liked to mix beer and wine,
put on the radio, and close her eyes to neck.
The eleventh sported a Raspberry Beret,
took it off; I spilled my Hot Chocolate.
The twelfth dyed her hair red
to match her freckles; I swear
Jon Anderson's new song was "It's On Fire."
The thirteenth danced disco, cut old boyfriends
out of photos, and was really "not like other girls."
The fourteenth said I reminded her
of her great love, the piano player.
Finally, a new moon beauty asked me
the words for "From The Beginning."