This is the second in an occasional series of autobiographical poems....
The Gaylynn was only a quarter;
The serial started at ten.
Saturday, every weekend,
I walked to the movies with Ben.
The game, as we walked along North Street,
To walk swiftly, missing each crack.
And Ben, whose stride was much longer,
Left me hurriedly far in the back.
Head down, and stepping with caution,
I ran into a classmate named Sue.
I stumbled, and stammered profusely,
For beside her was Cynthia Drew.
Cynthia was covered with freckles.
She was small, with bright eyes, and brown hair.
And Cynthia made me uneasy,
And Cynthia made me despair.
Then Cynthia smiled at me sweetly.
And regarded me, cocking her head.
"Your eyebrow. It curves like the Devil's."
And that was all that she said.
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"for 'twere absurd to think that nature in the earth bred gold, perfect in the instant;
there must be remote matter." - Ben Jonson
"I don't know what the question is, but art is the answer." - Guy Conner