as you lounge on that governor’s school couch
at seventeen, posture a boomerang,
sensual magnetism to your slouch,
headband pushing back from becoming bangs
those dark locks I love to caress when you
lie next to me these eons of loving
later in our brief lives. Slightest blur to
this black and white could place it in a wing
of Impressionists at our arts center.
Is this the moment (can your sense recall)
you decide to pass by your senior year,
move on to your college campus that fall,
luster of leaves flowing past your gentle
shoulders, your smooth flesh caressing the chill?
Roger
April 30, 2011
