"A Brief Wistfulness Of High School Nostalgia"

My line of sight blends well with the West Wind.
These pre-college adolescents thrive during gym class—
each projecting elated moments of perpetual wonder
as they sprint along the frigid concrete.
The prescience of my dwindling mind continues to
focus toward them—
each running in their school wear
that bears the colors of
forest green and daffodil gold and ashen gray.

Beneath me are the jigsaw puzzle pieces of dried leaves—
crumpled miracles in their own Divine Right,
who like my sight blends well with the West Wind.

I absorb the psyche of all these libido-driven post-cavemen
who swill in bizarre union
with the Catholic girls with ponytails
of effervescent life.

I inhale.

I scoop a handful of brown biometric pieces that rest
underneath me
and allow the Wind to do its duty.

I call to mind my four years of this life.

Finally, I exhale.