Pish-Posh

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The last thing I remember,
Was lying with you on a mattress on the floor
Of my mothers second unused bedroom.
(Unused ha!)
It was hardly used
Except for the radio
In the room—which served
As our “alarm” system.

But let us go back to the times of Vanilla Ice;
The times of cargo pants and Gatorade.
To railroad tracks,
and knowing who are the skaters
and who are the surfers.
Fortunately, or not,
We were neither.
Drama geeks
High spirited and Twisted
Mounting feelings at overwhelming rate
That measuring it on a scale would break both the mechanism
And the sound barrier.
Drama geeks:
With no more potential to spew Shakespeare
Than for me to pass geometry,
Or you to finish a sentence without
Exhale laughing: “I’ll kill you!”
You will.

If we travel back a little farther
We can see (god what’s her name?)—
Cathy Geraldo:
With breasts the size of 28 ounce cans of unpeeled tomatoes.
Perky as rockets.
Tall as a Redwood;
With back problems in 8th grade.
You introduced me to her,
But really you introduced me to you.
You were the silent partner,
The organizer:
The woman in front—keeping her eyes to the floor—
But the moment you walked away—searing me with a sideways glance—
You found the strings and,
Pull you did.

Fast forward to sex.
Woo-hoo!
Number Two!
You wanted number One!
And you weren’t alone.
But things move fast in twelfth grade.
Between basketball games,
Arcade Plaza’s,
Grand Prix Race-O-Rama’s,
And Spelling Bee’s.
True there were no high school dances
But true, if there were, would we have gone?
Can you picture it:

A two step, waltz, maybe wearing a mask, maybe wearing a suit, maybe driving a car, maybe holding a door, maybe holding a hand, maybe buying a flower, maybe looking you straight in the eye and spending one thousand seconds without saying anything before our friends come over and steal us away to the next hot thing.

Hello.
Hello you,
And goodbye.

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