Don’t Run off With Warren Beatty
By: Loukia Borrell
Dreich
2021
I tell you, “I’ve got Warren Beatty’s autograph,
from when he did Heaven Can Wait. It’s a head
shot. He’s wearing that gray, zip-up track jacket.
Which exit?”
You say, “Go toward Warwick.
Couple of miles up the road.
You’ll see the Amtrak sign.
Water the tomato plants tomorrow.
They should be OK today.
Use the rainwater in the jug.”
I pull into the train station. You ask:
“Will you wait with me until the train comes?”
I nod, “Yes, do we have to go inside?”
You are staring at me. “No, let’s just sit here, in the dark.
Soon, we’ll be moving in different directions,
both going the wrong way.”
The train appears,
Out of the night, it’s here. I offer you
a cheek.
“Lips,” you say. You lean
in to brush my Cupid’s bow lip
and say, “Don’t run off with Warren
Beatty while I’m away.”
You vanish in a business class car
I won’t be driving. Quiet ride home.
Before you come back, you call to
tell me a colleague’s wife suddenly died.
We breathe into our phones.
You are rushing to get somewhere.
“Hey, if I were married to someone else,
and saw you for the first time, I would
think my marriage was inferior.”
I inhale, my lips go up
“Warren Beatty would never tell me that.”
