So this is how History feels, she said.
Funny, I always thought it’d be more
of a brass band sorta thing.
Ribbons and banners and planes
flying in formation. Not so little
and squashed. And sad.

You still got long, long legs,
History, you told her.
You got legs that reach all the way
to Honolulu, Mama!
You’re my kinda babe.

Ow! History, rustle me up some of those
melt-in-your-mouth kisses, woman,
and I’ll build you a palace in Malibu
with a fridge full of raspberry
chocolate truffles.
But that was before she understood
that she was already History.
Or are you the one?That’s really History I mean.
One thing History is grateful for:
that she no longer cries
when she speaks your name
over and again. History.
History History History History History.
No brass bands.
Please.
Nobody cares about History anymore.