WHAT ELSE 1962?

A BOY AND GIRL AT A POND AFTER SCHOOL IN 1962

She sat watching ducks
on the pond,
I lay beside her
watching clouds pass.

She still wore
her school uniform
as did I having got off
the school bus
and came right
there to the pond.

Yehudit was silent
-a miracle in itself-
birds sang
from trees nearby,
traffic noises
were audible
from the road
over the way.

Still got the huff?
I said,
looking at her
sideways on.

She turned
and glanced at me;
bright blue eyes stared.

You were with her
all through lunch hour
and not me,
she said, and what's
she got I haven't?

I live near you;
she lives near school
miles away,
I said.

And? So what?
Yehudit said.

I don't get to talk
with her except
at school,
I said.

You were more
than talking.

I watched
as she turned away,
her hair brown
and on her shoulders;
her bra strap edged
through the cotton blouse.

She sat in a provocative way
and you were
too close to her,
Yehudit said.

I studied the way
her figure narrowed;
her a*s was neat.

I saw you from
where I was sitting.

I saw you,
I said,
gawking at us.

She turned
and stared at me.

Does that kiss
at Christmas
mean nothing to you?
Yehudit asked.

I recalled the kiss
and moonlight
and stars
and the choir sang
carols to people
in the houses.

Means a lot,
I said.

Didn't seem like it
lunchtime when you
were all over her
like she was a b***h
on heat.

The school tie
was untied
and pulled away
from her neck.

Her breasts pushed
against cloth.

She hasn't your humour
or your figure,
I said.

She lay beside me
and turned
and stared.

Is that so?
She asked,
eyes wide and blue.

Yes, of course,
I said.

What else can a boy
say or do?