It’s possible that I’m walking in
the mall with John Travolta, looking
more corporeal than in his Vinny days,

less hot that in Saturday Night Fever,
but hell, I sold my disco ball
to a church, and maybe John and I
were/are lovers despite his wife
having a new kid, and it’s possible

that the National Enquirer missed
the chance for a great photo
of John squeezing my ass before
a Macy’s mannequin, and I said,
“John, really, you big impetuous boy,”

and he cooed “All I think about is
your crotch” and perhaps Obama
decided to endorse gay marriage
because John asked him to stop
being a dick about it, and Congress said,

why the hell not, so suddenly
love broke out in Yazoo City
and in Cairo while John and I part
at the airport, him to make
another film, and me to scrounge

eBay’s orchid listings, buying
a fabulous salmon-colored cataleya
to lessen my sadness at his leaving.