There was a house in the hills
overlooking Hollywood
that my father
broke into in 1981
and a woman lived there
alone with the skeleton of her husband,
had a broomstick she pretended
fired bullets, back then
there were still poor people
with good land
alongside the rich and famous,
she said Sharon Tate
got stabbed down the street
and that a night crew roams
ever since.
Today I tell that story
to my boyfriends
who know brevity
in the love that ceases
when the door closes,
or a forgetful haiku
that was bad enough
to be on a can,
they ask who my daddy is
when I’m on top riding
or they’re on top doing,
and I say Caesar, Caesar,
Marco Polo, Roman Polanski,
and we laugh, but
somewhere they’re serious,
that’s all;
they drive away in their red wagons
wondering what it is I do for work,
I don’t know,
they come to me.