I was shaky drunk and weepy in a mauve ball-gown
that fell awkwardly on angular bones. He sat
next to me and asked what was wrong as if he might
get a comprehensible answer when everyone else
had lost patience. With a square haircut, a 50-year-old
in 17-year-old skin, he didn’t seem to want anything.
I wanted a ratbag with more attitude than I could muster,
someone to take me away, someone as cracked as I was.
Oh, I crashed and burned with the wrong ones for years
and decades later wondered what he was really like.
It seemed karmic that in our school reunion photo
he was the middle-aged spunk, shining in grey hair.