I wasn’t born the year she sang that song,
but I miss it anyway. I miss the
clarinet that starts it out; I miss the
way the lady says he done her wrong.

I would’ve like a red-feathered hat,
a tailored suit and high-heeled shoes, a pearl
necklace—a single strand—and leather gloves.
Nothing I wear will ever look like that.

There’s something about the saxophone
and the piano slightly off the beat
that makes me imagine someone handsome
who’s just about to fall in love with me,

and god, I wish I knew what happens when 
he turns and…too bad—I wasn’t born then.