This Poem was Submitted By: Doris C. Swearingen On Date: 2000-06-23 08:19:39 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Reunion Class of '57

George and Norma Jean are dead. Tonight they will dance among the stars like Ginger and Fred, in celebration while thirty-five years hurry by my bedroom window. George, a blonde knight died brazenly in the apple-red armor of his 'forty-nine Ford on route 119 North owing me twenty bucks, Norma Jean, a best friend. Once Norma Jean's lengthy legs strutted down High Street her sea-green eyes fixed on the silver stick twirling in the air. Her dusky hair swinging at her sequined waist. I followed her carrying ridiculous brass tuba. I would have carried her to be there. I carried the awe of her everywhere. I never once asked  her to dance. Charlotte, with shocking blue eyes, provided by a Pittsburgh Optometrist, frigid Charlotte who bore me no children has my black suit  perfectly pressed a suitable shroud for this celebration.

Copyright © June 2000 Doris C. Swearingen

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