It must be because I am from an island and that everyone here thinks that
everyone there knows everybody else.
It must be that people trust me so much that they ask the absurd.
It must be that I am the sort of friend that others feel they may seek
the answers to things of which they have always wondered but
where afraid to ask, like,

“Are Brighton girls really like the moon?”

See,

this is not even original. It is Bob Dylan’s line.
But,

there must be an echo in here because I keep hearing the
same question and saying,

Please!
Stop!

becauseI do not know I do not care I never thought about it I still
do not this is not worth my time it is neither here nor there even this
tap-tap typing is not worth this but since it is the only thing that
may perhapssatisfy what is clearly a curiosity
I will, from now on, have a ready answer.

Yes! Brighton girls are just like the moon!
They are perpetually twenty-two or however young is young enough for you.
Each is as rare and exotic as a blue moon.
Their faces are luminous as evening vespers beam
coming their lit-from-within skin that glows when damp with ethereal dew –

can
you
imagine?

They are plump and pert in all the right places.
They have just the right amount of junk-in-the-trunk and they
hold their asses high for your benefit as they walk on by like ...

The Girl From Ipanema.

Beneath their clothes they wear silk slips and seamed stockings.
Their skin is softer than anything you’ve ever known and is pure
and pale as buttermilk.

They smell like ... that smell you told me you loved.
They read Kant and Spinoza when not quoting Chaucer.
They are pure. They are sacred.
I’ve heard that some of them can levitate.
One or two or three or more has probably been waiting her whole

life

for that moment when you come along and do or say

. . . whatever

So – are Brighton girls like the moon?

Here’s a thought:

Take one or two on a tilt-a-whirl thrill ride.
Go fast, go slow, go backward, go forward, go upside down, roll on
your side, go in the tunnel, go out, go really really fast, kiss her at
the top of the Ferris wheel and say, “Yeah, sure, I love you,” then
take her to someplace – somewhere.

Just be sure to send me a postcard to let me know if Brighton girls are really like the moon.

Oh, the thing is, I don’t have my forwarding address just yet ...

copyright: sadi ranson-polizzotti, 2009

for goodness’ sake, new poems by Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti