1983

Is it 1983?
’Cause it is to me.
At least — it is right now.
I’m twenty one years old
And although it’s cold in December,
I’m burning like a midday sun,
The course only halfway run
On the last lap of the way to the finish line
Called “college”.
All that knowledge I
Took in, hoping
To win a little, just enough.
Ambitions small and localized,
Tough, but often, anesthetized,
With the universe expanding
Almost at the speed of my ego,
A thing both wondrous and monstrous,
And fragile as an old TV signal.
Back at the dorm in January, now,
Watching the old Oakland Raiders win
An unlikely championship surrounded
By as many beer cans as I had wishes,
Pat Summerall’s voice echoing down
The empty halls of memory

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