TOUCH OF HAND.

A BOY IN LOVE AT SCHOOL IN 1962.

The touch of her hand,
skin on skin, warm, soft,
and then she was off,
bell tolled, she walking

away, returning to school,
as was I, yet how to shake
off the feel and warmth
and softness? I walked

the corridor to the next
lesson, mind in confusion,
half back there on the field
with her, half with me, one  

foot one in front of the other
kind of thing, dreading lesson’s
bore, wanting to be back on
the field with her, wanting more.

Even though I was there in
the room sitting, listening or
seemingly so, it was she I
thought of, her lips that held

me in awe, not his, this teacher,
sprouting some yarn of a far
off war, some kingdom lost,
some one’s head chopped off,

while the half of brain and thought
on she of heart and mind’s hold,
taunted me from far away field,
in imagery, seemed all love and

kiss and such, but meanwhile,
I here with dulled brain half,
could only sit and stare at where
I had been kissing her there.