A Year Since Sixty-Nine

At fifteen, we began to lose our innocence
Small souls woven tightly, drifting summer leaves
On black asphalt.  

Knife blades of grass, pinpricked bubbles,
Rattling bones on a flapjack table.  You kept
The reins tight in your hand, and became
The man no one believed.

Squeezing nickels, and jumping jack dimes,
Slide rule in hand and in my mouth.  Sometimes
Sooner, sometimes later, but we come to
Each other eventually.

See how our circles make us complete!

-Zoe Richardson