Fiction

Written down here, gentle reader
 It seems too good to be true
 But there's a girl in Kansas City
 With my favourite tattoo
 Oh why would I lie to you?
 This was in another century
 Somewhere near the summer's end
 The fahrenheit was frightening
 I was awake the whole weekend
 Invited to a barbecue
 I found refuge in the kitchen
 Discussing post-war US literature
 With a girl whose upper arm read "fiction"
 Like it might have been typewritten
 I asked her its significance
 She said she sometimes took reminding
 What she wanted to be doing
 Whether reading it or writing
 I admitted admiration
 For both typeface and intent
 And said more softly — sotto voce —
 I knew too well what she meant
 She just smiled
 And in a while she went
 For a time I forgot this ever took place
 She left her bottle on the bookcase
 So though I leave you little option
 But to take me at my word
 I assure you, dearest listener
 That it happened as you've heard
 A beer left on a bookshelf
 At a bygone barbecue
 By a girl from Kansas City
 With my favourite tattoo
 Oh why would I lie to you?
 Oh why would I lie to you?
 Oh why would I lie?