Overture

When I was young,
I resembled nobody.

In the middle of the room,
the beautiful girls

practiced dance steps
like “The Grind,”

admiring each other’s hair
and clothes: I love

your elephant pants, that
disco shirt, that belt

with an apple on the buckle!
We gathered around a table

in someone’s smoke-
filled basement, listening

to guitar music, talking
about the future, always

the future, and how to get
away from here. Someone

passed around a bottle,
a rolled-up joint: Try it,

it’s just like smoking
paper.
But I

was young and resembled
no one I knew.

At least not then,
not yet.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Hill country.

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