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From High School

Don’t you feel that we really belong because
There are windmills in your eyes
Darker than for your mother’s sadness when she goes
Away into the loneliness in her kitchen:
And there doesn’t have to be any more reason for these
Tattoos except that I went away to Spain so many odd years
Ago:
I barely graduated high school: a truant with a purple
And silver jaw who is no longer beautiful-
Lost so long ago: kidnapped by the long extinctions of fireworks:
Each peeling whistle strangely reminiscent of our lives together,
Until collected under another school bus, I have nothing
Else to do but to listen to the long day as it rains
In fake knives- and my Muse named Alma turns in,
Frowning over my misuse of the queens language and all of
My scars, scarred like a spearing pylon
Presumptuous in the bay that the terrapins circle, with jokes
And farts, as she bites her fingernails,
And the green cannons bask in the seashells of the afternoon sky:
It might as well be Easter with the beauty resurrected there:
And the airplanes like metamorphosed school buses,
And the stewardesses languishing there, high atop the
Revolutions and serving drinks, smiling with the affable
Insouciance that I remembered all of my sweet hearts giving to me
From high school.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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