The smiling telegenic Man from Hope
Was on his way to Washington, DC.
And I was twenty-three:
I liked sweet Deborah, and I loved the Pope.
Cistercian yearnings filled my youthful heart.
I wrote to monks in Spencer, where I spent
A week that chilly Lent
In the placid abbey cloister, set apart.
Back at home, I'd watch the Boston Celtics
With Donald, friend since fifth grade. Beer would flow
Like streams of aitch-two-oh:
We'd scuffle over Art, God, Politics ...
I had no job. My future looked uncertain.
Still lived with Mom. Had no plans on returning
To halls of higher learning--
My noggin, filled with fog and Thomas Merton.
I still hung out with Rob the radical,
But I was getting too "uptight" for him.
He likely thought me dim
Or two cents short. I don’t miss him at all.
Oh, Harvard Square! You were my saving grace!
Reading International, The Book Case,
McIntyre and Moore,
Words Worth, Starr's, and yes, Harvard Book Store.
Of course, I crammed my brain with poetry
And Lady Marianne's litotic prose.
Contented? I suppose.
But it was not yet 1993.