h/t to Caroline Pollard for the photo
A portrait of a man not fully grown –
discovered in a loft and brought to light:
a leather jacket, Yankee hat, and bright
eyes, nonchalant to facing the unknown.
He wants to love, yet still needs to be shown
that common solipsistic oversight –
the plague of every amorous neophyte –
to have a care for hearts that aren’t his own.
At that age, breaking hearts was just a game
more fun than football (I played better, too).
The fug of booze and time obscures the names,
remorseful verse rewrites the billets-doux.
Quiescent will exists to make amends,
the hope on which society depends.
AWB
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