Joey
At thirteen, passion’s wrench and sting
hid in shadow far ahead of me.
I had yet to grow a heart that could bruise,
not even aware of Joey,
though he stood out
in his crisp white shirts and plaid ties:
tall for fourteen, handsome
if slow-witted in school.
How he romanced me,
called out “Jennifer, I love you”
in study hall, the other kids laughing
while Joey buried his crimson face
in the scaffolding of his arms,
me shrieking “Stop it, Joey,
it’s not funny.”
But of course he knew that.
It was deathly serious,
his face all blotchy, dark eyes
pooled with passion and hurt,
but chancing it, over and over;
with love notes in his childish sprawl,
with pats on my arm, grabs at my hand,
his attempts so painful and necessary
but always red and awkward.
I’d hiss “I hate you, Joey,”
sure this was a conspiracy
to bring me down, never really seeing
his eyes, that desperate love.
Where are you, Joey Doran?
I want to apologize.
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