Self-satisfaction got me through most days at school
The rest was hemming and hawing
And trying to explain why Rottweilers had
Such an appetite for homework
I had to feed them pages by hand.

I liked the girl in the gingham dress
And remember vividly the first stirrings
Of that part of me that caused more
Trouble than any exam I ever failed
And any book report I copied in the dusty
Stacks of the New York Public Library.

She didn’t like me back, not at first;
She had suitors who carried her books
Like they were guns, and brushed against her
As if the glitter on her shoulders
Would change them back from toads

I knew my erotic soul before it
Checked into my life’s motel. In my dreams
The girl shed the gingham dress without
Complaint, and then the dream dissolved,
Since we both had no idea what came
Next. I liked being naïve while wondering
What I might be as a really wicked boy.

I couldn’t dance and serviceably sang;
I told jokes, though, and had better timing
Than a Swiss watch. Her blue eyes would
Dance in their sockets when I was on a roll
And her cheeks turned scarlet and said yes

We kissed behind a dumpster in ninth grade.
I reeked of Camels I’d stolen from my father
While she smelled like a goddess.
My hands shook like Jell-o to keep
From pawing at her dress.

You can if you want to, she said
As open to the mysteries of
Fire and want as me, and just
As curious to see if the stained glass
Windows in the church would come crashing down
Sunday if we went just a little bit further.

But Jesus smiled, like He had last week
And the choirs sang, as they had all year
She gave up gingham for something
Slinkier and I still told jokes, but
With a dusky knowing mien

We scared each other, which is
Why it finally ended. Not with a bang, but
With a smile, each the other’s
Singular adolescent memory
To which we quietly pay homage

And though we never met again
I like to think it is a special
Smile we keep locked up
In our closets, in yearbooks
We signed in light and frothy doggerel

12/20/2011

Posted on 12/20/2011
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch