Freshboy eye candy larva, after Latin class in the Harvard Yard, this puerile grub
put out 2/3’s the hard yards required to acquire Life Magazine’s worn mustachioed
thrift-shop-Brooks Brothers-tweed-jacket-torn-leather-elbow-patches + pipe persona.

An apostate commonly caught up in the wash of a sunny big square state,
I got taught nodding Yessir to Pops and Gramps about pumping gas, slopping
the hogs then squeegeeing their crap off the pickup, in the end is what really counts.

Absconding self-conscious introvert, I bathed in Waldorf Cafeteria shadows
of cigar circles whose prodigies fueled my piggybacking doom: Disregard pale fools
who raised you, kiddo. That’s what this damaged rube from the other side of the Rockies

did while the splintered men’s room mirror futilely attempted to dispense PEZ.
50 years later Nordstrom redoers impart, Crayon remaining hair. Bleach teeth. Switch
out bifocals for contacts -- which preps this moldering fart for a less than gala college reunion.