Thinking of the Summer of ‘88

Thinking of the summer of ‘88
down on the Point, when we were young
full of hormones and moans and laughs,
immortal as you only can be at 20 years of age.
Picked first for football for the first and only time,
playing barefoot because I neglected sneakers.
Meeting the people who shaped the course
of my life, tacking across the region
and the country, following the folks
I met in Ithaca and Lansing.
Drinking Kamikazes and listening
to Chris De Burgh and the B-52s,
on hot nights and days. I went
for a weekend that lasted a week,
thanks to an ear infection
that changed my entire life.
That same ear clogs all the time.
It’s clogged right now. Full and gunky,
with echoes of Swimmers Ear
slightly below the surface
of Lake Cayuga. We swam and ran
and laughed. Large manly men
in wet clothing. I drove out with a friend
who ended up staying forever.
A big man put me in a drunken headlock
and said I was the best of men.
Within a year we were sharing an apartment.
A beautiful blonde woman taught me
cross stitch and blues appreciation
and the relative merits of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
A red haired beauty had living crystals
and sharp eyes.
I met a boxing declawed flame Himalayan
and a rocket computer scientist Swede
who wanted to buy a flamethrower.
Friends of great alacrity and attitude.
That summer led me to Ithaca
and Lansing, Syracuse and Seattle.
And tonight of all nights I’d like to go back,
and hang with the gang and have
my first trip to Sterling all over again.
But while I can get back to the Finger Lakes,
my GPS doesn’t have a good route
to 1988.