by Mary Anna Kruch
When I walked to our meeting place
to wait for you by the river,
it was another 70s evening
for girls with flowers in their hair
and boys lucky enough to snag deferments
or low lottery numbers.
Students strolled by in a restless shuffle
back to dorms for dinner.
Light grew dim, and I waited.
Night classes stirred sandals into a growing hustle
past the peace sign on the big rock,
past the tents in People’s Park.
Still, I waited.
Guitars strummed; leaflets and weed were offered.
A boisterous group with signs marched to Beaumont Tower.
They had no problem speaking their minds.
But you did.
I thought back to a night
soon after we met.
We sat up until 4 a. m.
under a faint, blue light on your bed
where you spilled what guts you did not lose
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