Love is like a racehorse wearing
blinkers to avoid being distracted
from the prize.

My blinded eyes shut tight, I
can’t see Jack through my hot, salty,
moist tears, but I catch a glimmer

of light through the back of my pink
eyelids. His shadow flits left to right calling out my name, playing a game

of hide and seek that tastes like the letter T, a hot-mess mixture of
hibiscus and peach colored, waxy

crayons. I recall meeting Jack,
sipping a cold cup of T, on the
corner of “Oh No You Didn’t” and

“Way,” He said, “You don’t know
Jack,” in his fake Indian (dot not feather) accent. As I whispered

back in mine, “By golly goodness,”
I felt like such a rachet, but he
smelled of curry and chicken

tandoori and I was hungry.
He was off-the-chain, yet I was
hooked like a shiny, gold charm

dangling off of a key fob. I knew
we were not correlated to one
another, but he was effective

on my psyche like a spoonful
of fennel ~ pungent, but a perfect
after-T palate cleanser.

He was my hot gulab jamun
of deceit, as I knew Jack’s smile
wasn’t worth the weight of his gold

crown imbedded in his Ivory
teeth. Jack said to me, “I’ve been
to the moon and back and I

brought you this beautiful rock. I
named it after you, Gibraltar.”
He knew my nickname was Rocky,

not because of my first
name, but because I always
swayed left to right, gently

moving, always searching for the
illusive magical bean that my
mother had dropped from our

third floor balcony, that was oddly above my head. I said to Jack, “I do
know Jack and one day I’m going to

find my magical bean and plant a
beanstalk right here in Central Park
or make an Ivory tower out of your

teeth, the ones I’ll knock out one
day.” I then screamed at the
top of my lungs, “Que sera sera.”

Then I opened my eyes, Jack was
nowhere around but I saw a
magical beanstalk now before me

swaying in the cold December air.
It was beautiful. Embedded with
hibiscus flowers and juicy peaches,

the base of the beanstalk called out
to me, “Climb me.” So I climbed.
Faster and faster like a agile

racehorse up the beanstalk,
away from Jack, my blinders
removed for the first time

seeing my beautiful grey mane
flowing in the wind.

Day 29: NaPoWriMo Prompt: “Twenty Little Poetry Projects.”