Love is a Bouncer at the Whiskey a Go Go

with a 70’s porn star ‘stache, a faded tattoo of a titties-out biker babe sexing up his Popeye forearm, who drags your heartache out back to a dank alley stinking of piss and Marlboros and beats the bloody shit out of it; or it might be Goldie Hawn dancing in a suspended cage on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in her white go go boots and psychedelic mini-dress giving voice to your 10-year-old dreams of being pretty popular pert; or maybe love is Nancy Sinatra’s sultry siren-song “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” your 90’s dive bar karaoke go-to when you were midlife crisis and making out with grad school; or it could even be when 2020 that hell harpy finally finally died, a soul-satisfying bloody screech death-ripped from her blue-white lips; or possibly probably likely love is the teasing/caring way your daughter’s sassy-sweet stepson calls her Bonus Mom and her wicked-wild redhead of a wife lets your short ass borrow her go go gadget arms because she’s tall-beautiful-kind making your shy daughter so happy you want to cry. 

CiCi Logan is, well, late. A lot. Late to her own wedding, late to getting degrees (PhD at 46), late to a career as an English professor, and, most recently, late to writing creative nonfiction with a terrifying foray into poetry. But she loves it, revels in it, all of it. And, since she is late, she has dispensed with worrying about what others think of her and just says what’s on her mind. Anywhere, anytime. (Usually something to do with sex if she’s being honest). 

Dr. Logan was very early once, though. She’s always known that Love Wins. Every damn time.

A Song for CiCi