The Art of Nostalgia

A personal passing of nostalgia

I hang out with the guys, and kick back with a few beers.

We talk about the old days; this always ends in tears.

 

We remember times at recess

when we would fall off the big slide,

or how we played tug of rope on Field Day;

I was always on the losing side.

 

We argue over who had that Squeez-it

that shot all the way to the ceiling.

Jim says it was him, Kevin says he did it.

But I know it was me, I just have a feeling.

 

There were no cliques, no segregation of any kind,

until we got older; friends became harder to find.

High school was a drag, everyone says;

but I disagree, because during these times

we were truly free.

 

My friend and I would fight to the death

in my sophomore Spanish class.

One day I tried to dropkick him in the head,

but he moved to the side as the door flung open;

I near kicked my teacher instead.

 

Soccer season was much worse; I was a danger to my team.

I scored on my own net and broke John’s ankle; twice.

To this day, my friend laughs and remembers how

I “pulled a waterboy” on Dan, breaking his little wrists.

But it was all for the best, because they played the worst.

 

We talk until the clock strikes midnight,

until our blood-alcohol level is low.

We talk of all the stupid things we have done

and no matter what we do now,

the past always seems more fun.