like those high school girls of my past
no longer too cute & perky
now as old as I am
heavier, thicker around the waist
-- if still alive
perhaps with both breasts
womb intact, perhaps not
legs rounder, more blue
fannies flattened
you won’t recognize me now
you didn’t even notice me back then
so the question is
would I recognize you?
you’re not my “great love”
now perhaps your pleasant smile
over dinner would be like salt
instead of that sophomore dance
I dreamed of beneath revolving lights
then our senior careers, each of us
drifting to our separate loneliness
away from holiday gatherings
Prozac wrapped in Dollar Store paper
meeting here like strangers on parole
(actually written in early Dec., before Gerald Ford joined Nixon. In 1975 Squeaky tried to assassinate Ford with an unloaded pistol; she is still in prison.)
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