PALS

 

I lied, confessing to him that my best friend Rich

had been killed over Christmas in a car wreck

in Portland up north. 

The Vice Principal softened

hearing my ‘news’, with a sliver of hope 

I thought ‘I’m in the clear’. My transgression

at the new high school, busted for smoking

by P.E. coach Fred, suddenly not so severe.  

Nor the punishment as well, ‘I’m not dead’

I yelled after school to Dave Minor

my partner in crime. 

Remembering this now 60 years later,

morning coffee in hand, my thumb 

caresses the lip of this cup, 

the cup painted with Scottie dogs you Rick 

brought as a gift from England; and now

you are gone, killed in your ‘70’s 

by the ravages of Parkinson’s 

while here on my couch I weep

and smile; whispers freely sailing in wind

recalling our beautiful boyhood escapades.  

Burnout with a baseball, mitts thump 

as we heave the orb hard as we can, 

sitting Summer afternoons on the curb

passing vanilla wafers back and forth 

like beads on a rosary, chugging them

down with a shared carton of cold Darigold milk,

                        howling gleefully those volcanic belly laughs

                        as we watched Gorgeous George crash onto Killer Kowalski—

                        how we marveled at these fake wrestling matches

                        on my parents bedroom tv. 

                        Yes my pal, we wandered then within our own astonishing universe,

those infinite confines of pleasure, magic, mischief and love.

I salute you Rick, may we grin and guffaw, munch chuckling

often on a plethora of treats, the horsehide hardball 

galloping as it burns blazing forever

between us.