The City's Mistress

My love poem to Denver, Colorado

So this is how this poem’s gonna go:

I’m gonna talk

and you’re gonna believe that every word I say
is truth.

Now you don’t need a reason to,

just know that what I do up here
is the fastest way to inform you

of what I do when I’m not with you.

Now this story’s a little complicated,

a little confusing,
but totally titillating
and by the end of it I think you’ll know

where I’m coming from.

 

Okay, I represent the

3

0

3.

And that’s Colorado, baby.

But more specifically,
I’m from the heart of it �"

Denver �"

or maybe just 7 minutes west of it.

And I love him like no one else.

Denver dances me across sidewalks

and tells me that as long as I ride
his one-way streets on the passenger side
he’ll keep me safe and sound.
He spins my head right round
especially when we go downtown,
and I’d give anything to spend
my life running through all the ends
of Denver’s gorgeous limits.

He sends me in square circles
and gets me lost every time,
but no matter what,
he always gets me home.

Whether by 8^th Avenue

or Blake Street,

I-25 South

or Colfax East,

Denver never lets me flounder
under timed street lights
and buildings that scrape the smoggy sky.

 

One of my lover’s masterpieces
happens to be SoCo �"

South of Colfax �"
and it’s a group of nightclubs and bars
that help you get your groove on underneath the stars
you can barely see.

They are within walking distance of each other
and I could never ask for another
more beautiful sight
than the sketchy club,

Vinyl.

Now I love Vinyl a little less than I love Denver,
because he did come second,
and I found myself inside his thick walls
on a Saturday night in July.

Vinyl is my favorite of my lover’s creations
because he has four floors.

In the basement,
the hip-hop sends you into the crotches
of men who press you deep
and expect you to keep
rolling your hips to the sultry, sexy,
I-need-to-take-a-shower-just-from-listening-to-this
music.

On the main floor,

the best house, techno and trance tracks
you’ll get on this side of Broadway.
The third floor
is VIP,
special invitation only.

And on the roof �"
oh, baby, the roof �"

is where you can see my city.

You realize that your heart beats
to the same beats they play inside.
You see that the heated seats
produce sweat like tears of joy
from Denver’s eyes.

You feel that the fire pits,

the bars,

the VIP booths
take you further than any light-rail or city bus
could take you.

And you feel Denver’s embrace around your ribcage
as he pulls you to the dance floor to do the Cupid Shuffle
with the drunken and the uninhibited.

 

But that night,

it was hot and sticky �"
I was wearing way too many layers for this place �"

and I wasn’t looking for a man to help me work off my stress.

They played a Michael Jackson tribute set
and let us clear our throats.

And during a Pitbull song,
while my friends and I salsa danced our way through the crowd,
I met a boy.

A gift, I assumed, from my longtime lover, Denver,
a display of his affection for me.

This beautiful boy stood before me and smiled,
asked me to dance,
and twirled me around that floor
like I’d never been twirled before.

He was tall, white and adorable.

Wore glasses and had a gorgeous smile.

The bright orange band on his wrist alerted me
that he was over 21

and his breath when he kissed me confirmed my suspicion.

But his kisses were different.

Not anything like Denver’s.

No, Denver would throw you against brick buildings,

press you against car doors in brightly lit parking lots,
roughly force his tongue halfway down your throat
so that breathing was like swallowing smoke
and reciprocating was the only way to save your life.

He was a rough lover �"

but Joe, my lover’s gift,
kissed sweetly,
like his life depended on the softness of his lips,
like our encounter would only be remembered
by the sweat on our faces,
the grip on each other’s bodies,
the scent of his cologne on my skin.

I found out soon afterward �"

after my number entered his phone �"

that Joe was not one of my lover’s presents.

You see, Joe was from Albuquerque

and was only in town for three more days.

He had the voice of an angel

and was trying out for American Idol.

He danced like a Columbian,
dressed like an American,
and smiled like he was the last guy on earth to ever make me catch my breath
after rolling my hips.

He wasn’t a Denver child;
he didn’t know the contours of this city like I did.

He didn’t know how to wrap the hot air around you
and know that you’re going to be okay walking to your car.
He didn’t know what it meant to be on 16^th Street Mall at 11 p.m.
pretending to be lesbians to make the people in front of you move faster.

He didn’t know the significance of Colfax,
the heartbeat of our only gay club Tracks,
the monuments built in honor to the selflessness of individuals trying to change the world.

 

But as Joe leaned into me the next night,
my hips against the railing at the top of Red Rocks Amphitheatre,
my eyes on the sparkling lights of Denver,
I realized that you can’t fall in love with a city.

Sure, Denver could feed me, clothe me, and put a roof over my head.

He could keep my secrets secret,
my fears subdued,
and my mind entertained.

But he could also beat me,
rape me,
drug me and leave me for dead.
He could get me addicted to alcohol,
cocaine,
and meth.

He could entice me to spend
every last penny I had
just for the high of being a mile-high.

And I needed more than that high now.

After flirting with cities all over the world �"

St. Louis, Chicago, the Twin Cities,

Florence, Madrid, Barcelona �"

I saw that Denver was my one true passion.

But no one can stay a mistress forever

and I needed something more than a club scene

and Cherry Creek shopping.

So as Joe wrapped his arms around me,

and told me I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen,
I stared into Denver’s eyes
and apologized
for ending a nineteen-year love affair
in the arms of a boy
who could never love me better.