If you need someone to blame, blame Patrick Swayze.
I discovered this early. Dipping fries into shakes. We talked about Baby and Johnny and corners. Her eyes got hazy. And then she was gone: loverboys and watermelons and wet clothes in mountain lakes.
I never got her back. She’s living in the Catskills now. She listens to old records. She dances on old bridges.
I tried to be Johnny. I crawled on the floor, I wore leather jackets, I bit my lower lip. But I sleep in. I get fat. I sing off key. And I’ll try and I’ll try and I’ll try, but I can’t make you happy.