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Two for One
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And Time Goes By Judge Yeager told me quite frankly
(over two-for-one margaritas and
free chicken wings)
that he had never felt the warmth
of genuine love; had never
experienced the thrill of a
lovers' sunset, a waiting heart,
and whispered dreams.
He wanted to know where time had gone,
and what had happened to the fantasies
of his youth,
lost when he became "somebody" at the
insistence of his father
(who had more trophies than scruples),
but who never knew the touch of
fragile forget-me-nots and golden sunsets.
We had another round of drinks, and
he told me how he won his own first
trophy shooting spitballs at the
teacher in private school where his
father was a member of the board;
and how he fell in love with Connie Meadows
because she had bells on her slip and
jingled when she walked.
Connie married Judge Yeager's father
when she was nineteen and he was fifty-two.
I told him tropies aren't everthing and,
well, just look at poor Connie,
spending her days in the facility with
twenty-four hour care to be sure she
doesn't take her own life.
We ordered one more round while
I read a poem about butterflies and sunsets.
It was the first time I had ever seen
Judge Yeager cry.
