Teenage Nights
His name was Alex Hornblatt.
A thin boy with long brown
hair.
He played guitar, read
philosophy,
lived in a brick house on
the better
side of Queens than I. He
was a runt
with a sharp tongue curved
Jewish
smart. I walked by his house
listening for his guitar,
Dylan
songs from his bedroom mixed
with
honeysuckle tinctured the
night air.
My adolescent body swooned.
He never had a word to say
to me.
My best friend indulged me
to walk
past his house night after
warm night
with nothing to do but wonder
how
to knock on his door, what
to say.
He invited us in when he
heard we had pot.
The great entrance until he
kissed my friend
in the corner, I sulked
silently away.
