The poor boy is just a score
Foiled over a tinny memory,
A light under the table
Vying for something Clark Gable would pull;
Instead I pull in my chair and sit delightedly.
A memory hindsided me when I looked away,
When I looked around without the grounds
To say anything.
I just sit back, relax, and relish their talk,
And compare their lives' cycles
And the patterns they plot:
The segregated groups with gossip complete,
The drama, the heartbreak, a high school repeat.
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