He was maybe twenty-three or -four.
Younger than the fox fur stole she wore,
She was old enough to think the police were looking young,
Her favorite songs were vintage tunes that he had never sung.

Strangers sometimes thought she was his mom,
A slip that she’d accept with sweet aplomb,
And though he wasn’t sure he liked that game,
When she said, “Come to Mama,” . . . he came.

Dusty photos showed her way back then,
A trophy on the arms of well-dressed men.
She taught him how to tango, and just which fork to use.
He taught her how to rock and roll and smoke away her blues.

He played her grand piano, and made himself at home,
She bought him steaks and wine and curbed his tendency to roam.
She dressed him up and showed him off to dukes and movie stars,
And then they danced and laughed all night in smoky neon bars.

Days they lunched and limousined, and never looked ahead.
Nights they wrote sweet love songs deep within her feather bed.
And in her moonlit window seat, he cradled his guitar,
And searched to find that sad, sweet chord for wishing on a star.

And on the sunny boulevard the tan young girls strolled by,
But he was hers, he let her know, by touch, by word, by eye.
"You are my muse," he smiled and crooned to softly strummed guitar.
Or could it be, she thought, his new-found taste for caviar.

And when he left there were no big goodbyes,
"I'll see you soon," he said with smiling eyes.
And it was over just like that, except for scattered tears,
And just a tiny spark of hope she gently fanned for years.

He never knew, those long years later, if she heard his song,
But millions did, and world-wide sales were strong.
And many women claimed the song – alas, without a clue,
But she knew. Ah, yes . . . she knew.