The smiling telegenic Man from Hope
Was on his way to Washington, DC.
And I was twenty-three:
I liked sweet Deborah, and I loved the Pope.
Monastic yearnings filled my youthful heart.
I wrote to Spencer's Trappists, and I spent
A week that chilly Lent
In the placid abbey cloister, set apart.
Back at home, I'd watch the Boston Celtics
With Mark, a friend since fifth grade. Beer would flow
Like streams of aitch-two-oh:
We'd scuffle over Art, God, Politics ...
I had no job. My future looked uncertain.
Still lived with Mom. Had no plans on returning
To halls of higher learning---
My noggin, filled with fog and Thomas Merton.
I still hung out with Rob the radical,
But I was getting too "uptight" for him.
He likely thought me dim
Or two cents short. I don’t miss him at all.
Cultured Cambridge! You were my saving grace!
Reading International, The Book Case,
McIntyre & Moore,
Words Worth, Starr's, and yes, Harvard Book Store.
Of course, I crammed my brain with poetry
And dear Miss Marianne's scrupulous prose.
Was I happy? I suppose.
But it was not yet 1993.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2018-03-14 at 09:44
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