you take my hand
saying peace in mournful sigh
yr eyes cold like handshake
still trying to warm from late January
huddled with back at heater, Strawberry Square
glad to be allowed away from Winter
but troubles ache yr face, age yr face
and i think you may not be of this world
feelings of not fitting in
confused thoughts of not belonging
stir up memories of lost loves
what was her name, that first kiss
that first touch of girl-skin, that first fumbling fuck
and you may not be from this world
friendships only remembered barely
echoing in empty chest
sayings of forever and ever
now cracked in ugly truth mirrors
and you may not be here at all
school yard hatreds you cannot recall
but they still bite at yr sleep
you take my hand and peace you tell me
and peace is what you are wishing for
hoping that i can work miracles upon yr mind
you take my hand and you are frozen
i avert and say my goodbyes
rushing out to the Winter that you are hiding from
and i go my own way down Third St.
and my hand is still sad from yr frozen handshake
but how can i help when i am not of this world either
and you turn and face the heat again

black skirt
just long enough to be legal
but not long enough to get past mother's eye
black socks
rolled high up to knees
knees that still have not been bent
bent & knelt in holy communion
beneath football bleachers
white oxford shirt
buttons subtly bulging from
growth of puberty's self-indulgence
black shoes
heels high to make you look taller
broader, more like a woman
& body too, to fool us all
long dark hair
twisting around still innocent lashes
that will not be so innocent for long
as yr hand swipes back
a gang of renegade follicles
that have stolen yr eyes from the world
yr fingers banish yr hair, like
you are teasing the sex right out of us
aching to use those pouting lips
upon the boy of yr dreams
hips lips ships
that pass upon escalators
you flit and you flut
as you sit & you strut
upon yr corridors
too young to have known life before
Mtv & computer screens
too young to know the joys that come
outside the truth of the touch of yr own fingers
but wondering with eyes upon
classmates & maybe upon
the walk of strangers too
strangers that see yr black skirt
hiding the breath of yr life
from our wandering, wanting eyes
and we wonder if you are as dark
beneath there as you are upon yr head
thoughts of you grab me in my shower tonite
& won't let go until I'm thru

life is a fatal condition
we must all pay our own
tuition

like when red becomes yellow
just before turning blue
never to be expected by
first kindergarten glance of
grandpa's old Zippo

and life is a fatal condition
we must all pay our own
tuition

predicting a future
not even knowing our past
living like fools
but giving our all to
those old foolish paths

and as life is our own fatal condition
we must pay death's reaper our one last
tuition