Graduation

In Western Pennsylvania,  

the leaves are raw sienna

Covering the Montour Trail for miles.

Somewhere a sixteen year old me 

Wrote a poem for a cheerleader 

In World Literature class,

A cheerleader whose name 

I don't recall correctly,

Either Julia or Julie, or neither, 

A cheerleader I had about as much 

Chance with as I did understanding

"Things Fall Apart,"

And all the other books we read 

Or pretended to read in that class.

We were too busy 

making jokes, making light, 

making fun of everything.

Too busy to care about 

helicopters, Africa, 

prisons and glossaries, 

foreign names, 

hopelessness.

The last week before she graduated, 

I handed her the poem.

It was the only time 

We'd been serious.

The solemn chill before

"Have a nice summer."

By chance we met in a grocery store

Twelve years after.

There was no cheer left on her face.

No jokes, no humor.

It had all been sucked out, 

Replaced with a life that 

Should come with a warning:

"May cause frown lines."

The last thing she told me:  

I still have your poem.

The romantic wishes 

She kept it because 

It was great,

Because I was her 

Langston Freaking Hughes, 

Boy Genius who'd go on 

To write great things.

But the writer winces, 

wanting to correct 

and enhance and edit 

with all my years of experience 

in knowing  a poem 

can never really be called finished 

until you let it go.

And the worst part is, 

Though I know the words I wrote

Meant so much back then,

They've long since 

Fallen like letter leaves 

From my memory.

I try to conjure them up, 

There is a blank page.

There might have been a moon involved, 

Or a puppy, maybe a phrase

About that coming summer, 

Or something more important, 

Like a metaphor whose meaning

Stated with clumsy teenage elegance was:

"It's going to be all right."

Except it's not.  

Never was. Never is. 

This is what a decade plus has taught me:

You graduate. 

Leaves crumble. 

Things fall apart.

Those books I pretended not to read, 

I understood all the same.

The time flew by faster than any semester. 

And in the end, I'm left with

Intentions I meant  but can't remember,

Feelings written on a high school 

Notebook paper. 

How often I wish

I could have a little peek back there 

To read, study, laugh

and remember again,

Even though a poem, 

I know, I know, 

Can never really 

Be called finished

Until you let it go.