Somehow, the blue of her jeans has not
Faded from my memory, even though
I cannot remember whether I ever
Knew her name.

Mine were two of at least two dozen
Teenage eyes that followed the contours of
Her curves, but mine seemed to be
The only ears that wished her words
Were directed at them.

It feels wrong that these words are
Being written not last century by
The bony hand of an awful adolescent poet,
But by a man with receding hair and
Greying beard, whose bedtime thoughts
Should not dwell on teenage girls.

But memories are funny things:
This one belongs to the sixteen year old
That still lives somewhere within me,
Newly imbued with social confidence
But still clueless with girls.

She was talkative, and animated,
And bewitching; in the same room but
Half the world away; only over there
But completely out of reach. All I could do
Was gaze wistfully at her distant self,
Just as I am doing now. Maybe
That is why I still like the song.

(There was a lesson there, but I did not
Heed it, either then or in any of its
Many reappearances in the next decade.)

Her incursion into my life was
Brief, but far reaching, even though
I tidied her away at the back of
My memories for so many years.

Now, finally, it all makes sense:
It was more than music and card games
That I stored safely away, ready for
The inconceivably distant future.

08/21/2016

Posted on 09/26/2016
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince