Faces against Names

They wear the names I know from long ago,

surnames, for that is how young boys are hailed,
  
I come to an inch of their faces, breathe their breath,
  
peer into mailbox slits in search of old friends.  
  
I can not find this classmate whose name I know
  
was beside me alphabetically
  
on wooden desks scored deep with the words
  
of lecherous lads and physics formulae.  
   
I see hot afternoons under lazy black fans,
  
chairs with worn glides shrieking when moved
  
on the floor made lumpy by coats of paint,
  
but I cannot see his laugh in this man's eyes.  
   
Is he in there somewhere? Asleep? Is there
  
a misshapen, stunted shard of my friend
  
in this unhealthy bloat bearing his name,
  
made hopeless by debt and bad marriage?  
   
They wear the names I know from long ago,
  
comrades once, now working against the people,  

I come to an inch of their faces, breathe their breath,
  
peer into mailbox slits in search of patriots.  
   
I cannot find this man who would argue
  
with fever about country till morning,
  
between us a glass of cheap inebriant,  

our voices and Peer Gynt disturbing neighbors.  
   
Is there a misshapen stunted shard
  
of my patriot friend inside this soused old man,
  
hope maimed by betrayal and bad presidents,
  
would he be duct-taped, hands bound, whimpering?