Her Name Was Paige

He was a superhero then,
At nine years old (in his own mind)
And she sat in the front of class
And stood by him in lunchroom line,

He’d see her on her bike sometimes
In Spring, a pink and purple blur;
Her name was Paige, and when he thought
At all of girls, he thought of her.

She was the smartest kid in class,
And ran as fast as anyone;
And sometimes down at Ander’s Field
They’d play until the setting sun.

A dozen kids, or more, there’d be,
And games they’d play for sport, or whim;
Her name was Paige, and when she thought
At all of boys, it wasn’t him.

This tale has no great denouement:
He crushed on her, she didn’t know.
At nine years old, you feel some things,
Then ride your bike and let it go.

That pink and purple bike, some nights,
Will pop into his dreams -— it does —-
Her name was Paige, and he liked her.
And that is all that story

Diaries of Another Summer (4)

Helios burned away the fields,
And tore away my mind;
I followed her up to the Emerald Watch
But she was not inclined

She longed for a man in a uniform
Who was now across the seas:
I followed her up to the Emerald Watch
With a new kind of heart



“It’s just a crush,” they told him,
“You’ll grow out of it,” they said;
Well, it’s been thirteen years,
And there she is, still in his head —

For being young does not mean
One can’t tell false love from true;
Or know the ache of loving someone
Who does not love

[As is frequently true, the ubiquitous “they” were wrong – Owen]


[And yes, that was her real name. – Owen]

Sometimes, as guys
We fantasize
‘Bout girls who we know
Hate us

Or maybe they’re
Indifferent, or
Perhaps, they
Just don’t rate us

I knew one,
Name of Gracie,
Back when I
Was still in college

She told me I
Was not her type.
And never,
To my knowledge

Gave me any
To think I had
A chance

At anything with
Her that bordered
Near to a

But, still,
I thought about her
Every day
And every night

Because, that’s
What we do as guys
It’s neither
Wrong nor right

So long as we
Don’t force ourselves
In places we’re
Not wanted

But women tear
Our minds apart;
And leave us lone
And haunted

I guess that Gracie
Was my friend,
After a sort
Of fashion

She didn’t share
My interest, nor
My ardor nor
My passion

But that
Could not be helped,
She never had
The slightest doubts

She thought of me
The way that I
Now think of
Brussels Sprouts