AS FAST AS THE DEER CROSSING THE HIGHWAY
Hey, man,
I ran with a kid down the streets
who ran as fast as a deer crossing the highway
on Saturday night,
he was my best pal,
from kindergarten to sundown stretch,
each of us wore on High School letter sweaters
on Saturday night,
when we doubled dated on his souped up coup
de ville,
his date, Miss Forever High School Cutie Queen,
mine the first runner in those beauty pageants
when the girls look as if they were made by gods
intent on breaking young boys hearts.
Danny boy was my best friend,
yet when he told me he wasn't going to college
after graduation,
I felt fear,
for the draftsman was hungry for poor white boys
who ran faster than deer across the highway on Saturday night,
and I knew he would not say no to Uncle Sam,
where we lived in a state where tradition and honor
were as intoxicating as rum and cola to young boys
wearing high school letter sweaters
with cute girls to the drive-in picture show
with buttered popcorn, rum in our cokes,
and a double feature with John I am I said Wayne,
I told this war was not like the others,
our high school history teacher from New York
told us we were walking deeper into each day,
and the local plastics factory couldn't make enough body bags,
my buddy-pal blew me off,
he was first string and invincible,
we all thought that,
until that day the sniper hit him in the lower part of his spine,
we all cried,
we said prayers for him at the Baptist Church,
the cheerleaders made him a get well basket,
but we all knew no girl would marry him sitting in that
wheel chair,
but I stayed loyal to my buddy-pal,
and every Saturday night we both go to
that football field,
and watch those young studs prance up
and down the field,
as if they own the world,
and reality is for those of us over thirty,
wearing faded letter sweaters,
and one of the best,
sitting in a wheel chair made in China,
crying a little each time a young cheerleaders
walks by him,
not knowing who in the world we are.
