It seems to me,

dear Lilly,

young mother of Rosie,

my first kissing-crush girl-friend,

I entering my early teens,

that you,

having been a young bride,

so near to us, really, in age,

that when I, by then, a young man,

35, perhaps,

after you’d called,

(we’d stayed in touch by National-411 for updates!)

and I’d learned of your new-found life,

and I’d come to visit you

in your post-divorce home,

to see you and express

my sad surprise

( for your x-husband. good Ol’ Charlie’d

been such a strong, manly, demanding

father figure for all us kids in those days)

that I sensed a freedom,

even a wildness,

in your words and tone

I’d never heard, before, from you…

It seems to me, Lilly,

so strange a thought,

now, I know…

that we might have lain together

on the rug by the fire place

in your new home.

That there might even have been room

for both of us in your queen-sized bed…

For years melt in passions heat

and I found again my unrequited

(of course it was!)

adolescent lust for you

rekindled by your fingers

as they lingered

on my arms and hands

as we sat on the beach

outside your new home

and laughed the sun down….

What taboos still stood between us

even then,

time telescoped and hint-blurred

and age, “just a number”?

Why not?

We could have, surely!

And now,

I am 75,

maybe wiser,

though less able,

but, likely you are gone.

Whatever difference

could it have made,

way back then

or even way, way back then

or now?

Ah, yes!

All those taboos and regrets!