Girl of my dreams

You were the woman - no, the illumination - standing on the corner of Geary and Van Ness, remaining 5 feet off the curb, standing in the crosswalk. Normally I look at Mel's Drive-In diner when I'm at that stop light, but this time I was looking at you. You were talking to no one; talking to everyone. I'm sure your song reached hundreds, because you paced in that 3 foot circle with vicious determination. I thought for a moment that I was struck by lightning when I saw you, or maybe stuck with a pin -- there was a moment of confusion. But the way your side ponytail was gathered near your temple was all I needed to see to confirm what had happened to me: I had been a victim of Cupid's mighty bow.

Yes, I kept my window rolled up, and yes, my sunglasses were on and I appeared to be looking straight ahead, but you know what? They allow me to be a voyeur at times, and this day was all any voyeur would need. I stared. Can you blame me? If I had diabetes, your osteoporosis ravaged back would be my insulin. If I were an alcoholic, your incoherent mumbling to no one at all with that empty styrofoam cup in your hand would be my gin. If I were deaf, the way you wave your arms around like your head is on fire would be my sign language for You Complete Me.

Some artists use clay. Others use paint. But you? You are fluent in the medium of art that others only dream of -- you are our poet laureate of Crazy.

Now, let us dance.