I’m not sure if this poem is about Prince
or this girl I once loved who loved Prince
a girl who would whisper “if only it would rain purple”
with each torrential summer downpour
that kept us in the bedroom of her garage apartment
listening to Prince records on a Radio Shack turntable
until the skies cleared and the candy sunrays through the clouds
really did make the sky seem purple.

I’m not sure yet if this poem is about Prince
or this girl I once loved who loved Prince,
a girl who Facebook tells me turned 44 today,
glitter girl of the early 90s-turned-soccer-mom of 2,
singing Taylor Swift songs to her kids in the car
so they think she’s cool, as she drives them from parties to practices,
but who goes back to listening
to Prince after they slam the car door shut.

I’m not sure yet if this poem is about Prince
or this girl I once loved who loved Prince
but here in my paisley crib
as side two of Controversy glides into the runoff grooves
on that same Radio Shack turntable,
I sit here aging under what might be a cherry moon,
waiting for the purple rain to fall.