Poem By Glenn Bagshaw
Her name was Joan and as he kissed her
in the all but empty room, he recalled-
yes, quite remembered now, a thrilling moment years ago.
Joan the First had, at twelve, in a clumsy, kidding way
kissed him then as well.
But those were vortexed, all- turned-inward days-
a crushing sense of self at school-
fated to stutter and teasing struck him
down, again, again. Telling thrusts from
boyhood's lethal friends…..
***….By his loosened grip and the slackness
of his arms, she knew that he again was
creviced In his thoughts.. Now to do what
simply must be done. She was moving
and had to pack. Turning, she freed herself
and left the room...****
He would have... no! ...he tried to call her back
and to preamble, made a disappointed sound-.
But the echo in the almost barren room
was faltered speech, child's, chilling,
fumbled voice, again those years,
and she, strangely drifting far away,
would freeze forever shocked
at the pelting rain of laughter,
the pleading, boyish tone,
the spit-out stammer of his former self.