The Truth About Wind
The Beach Boys sang of her and, at fifteen,
I wanted to find a girlfriend named Wendy
to go along with the song. And then,
one frosty night in Ole’ Cheyenne, I sat
in the backseat of someone’s car with
my arm around a girl named Wendy.
How did I get so lucky?
I kissed her and though she kissed me back,
there was nothing there, nothing between us.
I had her in a full embrace in that backseat,
but she was totally unimpressed.
Was I a bad kisser? Did she want something
more than kissing? I was way too Catholic for that.
“Wendy, Wendy left me alone” that night
on a gusty prairie outside of Cheyenne where
we teens went to make out and drink beer.
I thought the song’s title was “Windy,” imagined
the wind on a California beach, ocean roar,
sand caressing my toes, the musky smell of
sun tan lotion and summer freedom—I hot-
dog it for my Windy, hang ten on a surfboard.
The song runs through my head even now—
but she really wasn’t interested—not at all.