Dashine

The streetcar is dragging my dead heart home from a minor romantic defeat.
I was standing along with a nervous line,
legs anticipating a seat,
when in front of the firing squad of my eyes
walked a beautiful African girl.
My eyes bounced to and away from her
while my lips tried to jump-start a smile.
Then suddenly and so effortlessly
she poured me a long, sweet smiling drink,
and suddenly I had the ability
to smile back at her, though it was weak.

But what I should’ve done is said,
“Don’t smile at me
unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don't bend that lovely bow to use my heart for target practice.
Don't smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don’t make my hormones go and then tell me you’re just an actress!
Don’t smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me.

I was far too shy to approach her there,
but I swore that I’d talk with her soon.
I would sit by her side when the streetcar arrived
and I’d start with a “Hi, how are you?”,
So I went to get gum at the Garfields
to chew it and mask my bad breath
in breathless preparation for
a moment bringing rebirth or death.

The man at the counter asked how I’d been.
I told him that I’d been okay.
He said, “Is that why you look so cheerful then?”
and I asked, “What did you say?”
When I picked up his friendly sarcasm I was about to justify
why I don’t smile, when I suddenly saw that the streetcar’d already arrived.

The girl with the smile was just ahead in line
but somehow some other man
had me beat for that sweet seat beside her,
though without any romantic plan.
I was about to turn around to sit just ahead and across the aisle,
when she pulled that red bow of her mouth once more
and unwrapped me another smile.

So I thought, “She must really have liked me
to smile sweetly two times in a row,
so I was determined to talk with her shortly
or else I might not ever know.
I decided to ride until she got off,
to catch up and then talk with her then,
so I stayed in my seat and I missed my stop
because I might not see her again.

As the streetcar came closer to Parkdale
I was ready to spring for the door,
but my matching that place with her sweet chocolate face,
was it racist or merely a bore.
At Spadina I expected this angel
to descend into some trendy hell,
but if tempted, she didn’t show it,
her hand never reached for the bell.
At University all of the Shriners
who’d gotten on at the Motel strip
stumbled drunkenly out into their parade,
but she still continued to sit.
When Yonge street came she got off the car.
Would she go into the Hudson’s Bay?
“Oh, Goddamnit no!”, I had to pay again
just to follow her on the subway.

I followed her, fifteen bodies behind
and caught up with her on the platform.
“Hi”, I said, with relief in my voice
and she gave a “Hi” in return.
I told her she was very beautiful.
“Thanks”, she said, kind of indifferently.

“What’s your name?”, I asked, and she said, “Dashine.”,
showing pride that her name was unique.
“I’m Christian”, I told her, with even more pride.
She said, “Hi”, one more time to my name,
then I said, “Hi”, in response to her “Hi”,
just to balance that stale greeting game.

“Do you work out in the west end?”, I asked.
She said, “No, that’s where I live.”
“and where are you headed for now?”, I asked.
She told me, “I’m meeting a friend.”
“Oh ya”, I said, for the sake of response,
as the train slid up, packed end to end.
“Oh, shit!”, she said in response to the crowd,
but we managed to squeeze our way in.
As the train jerked itself into motion, I asked, “Do you go to school, or do you work?”.
“I work”, she said, and she seemed annoyed,
asking, “What are all of these questions for?”
“Oh!... I... ah... oh... I’m sorry!”, I said.
She told me that it was okay.
“I need to ask questions to talk”, I said.
She said, “I’ve had a trying day”.
“Do you always smile as sweetly as that
when you’ve had a trying day?”, I asked.
She rolled her eyes in response to that
like she was taking both of those smiles back
on a web running back to her spidery guts
which had spewed them out with so much art.
Now both of those smiles she had given me
left a sour aftertaste in my heart.

I hung nervously from the overhead bar
while the cookie that is my poor heart
was crumbled in the grip of the moment
and it fell to the floor of the car.
I tossed her a couple of whimpering smiles
without daring to look in her eyes,
but the limp smiles that she handed back to me
were just anorexic “Good-byes.
At Wellesley Station she got off the train.
I followed, but got washed far behind
by the counterflow of the passenger flesh
descending to get on the line.
I tried to intercept her
by ascending a clearer stairway,
to explain why I’d taken such trouble,
but by now she was too far away.

But I should’ve found some way to tell her.
I should’ve climbed on a transfer dispenser and shouted.
I should’ve hijacked the fucking public address system and screamed this message out to every post pubescent girl and every woman there with their chromosomal licenses to tease:
“Don’t smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don’t bend that crimson bow to use my heart for target practice!
Don’t smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don’t make my hormones go and then tell me you’re just an actress!
Don’t smile at me
unless you wanna have sex with me.