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The Years 1975 And 2025, A Poem For Doug H---
The days and dates of two thousand twenty-five
align exactly with those of nineteen seventy-five:
the year I first began to reach out from my shell, the shelter
against the high school's persecutorial welter.
And you, Doug H---, seated next to me in fifth period literature
(all prose, and the boredom was a chore to endure)
often slipped your "disco-heeled" shoes off your always black socks
beneath your bell-bottom jeans' cuffs, frayed and tattered:
an image of daily beauty that I did not fail to savor
(imagining from their fragrance what might be their intimate flavor).
The details of this memory have never, ever scattered,
despite the machinations of calendars and clocks.
I loved the way your sock-sheathed feet played with each other---
inspiring thoughts I could not have disclosed to Father or Mother.
StarSpared
