He called her that so long before
they even learned about Kung Fu,
Grasshopper, he would roll the word
around his tongue as if to taste a bit
of her that way. They both were green
and had been victims of a chance, in school,
eyes roaming through infinity of space,
while singing in accented French the Marseillaise.
It was a rare and pleasant honour to belong,
wild-haired musician teachers ran this choir.
Perfection was prerequisite but 'doucement',
so as to not betray le héritage of ancient age.
So, strolling by themselves their eyes had met
and danced above their heads a secret pirouette,
two pairs of eager, moist and patient eyes,
a pact was done by unknown powers of the mind
it made a gruff pubescent boy into a kind
and thoughtful dreamer who would find and read
her books of poetry and stories of the greats.
She knew the masters due to being there,
in class two levels higher and she wore blue jeans.
Today he dreams of them, those lucky denim rags
allowed to cover and caress what he could view
only in summer when the skies were warm and blue.
They'd see each other, now and then, in the Big Smoke;
she'd graduated and soon moved away, so very far away,
last glimpse was in the dark, she, dressed to kill
with fiancé in tow, well......arm in bloomin' arm!
She spotted him, across the empty street
and called him: 'Grasshopper, how in the world are you? '
Their legs did break their hasty stride for just a bit,
then to resume their separate lives, so far away.
Only the eyes had stopped and dwelled there, full of joy
they've always known the secret dreams of one small boy.