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Poetry #92
(published Mid-year, 2002)
Never to Meet
by Rich Furman

The game was truth or dare.
Two boys, two girls we sat on
stale green bean chairs inching our way
into sexuality. Posters on the walls of heartthrobs:
these were our true lovers, late at night alone
with tense relieving skilless frantic hands.
First there were the truths.
A misnomer for the exaggerations
of bravado, fear and shame.
How far have you gone?
What is your favorite thing to do with a girl?
Next came the dares.
This is what we came for. We had heard these girls
would lets us feel their breasts, would feel us
between the legs, let us feel them below too.
First came my turn with Maria.
We did not kiss. She stood against the wall,
lifted up her shirt and stared away.
Fat dark breasts that I rubbed clinically.
No joy, only obligation and the need to save face.
This was all important at twelve.
Next came Lisa. She shook my boyhood
like a stubborn catsup bottle.
Yanked in one unnatural direction.
It turned purple pained like fresh sun blisters.
Then she let me touch her.
At first, I found nothing but fluff and skin.
She guided me further down.
The awaited magic at hand, it was a moist
and awful thing. Like slices of liver covered in wire.
Was this the grand reward?
Like the disillusioned knight the grail never found.
Or maybe it was me, was I different form the rest?
Later, we compared notes. Notes made in mind,
not memory. We both spoke of a saving magic box
and feelings too good to describe.
In bed, I stared at the textured ceiling,
watched the glow of streetlights reflect
palm tree shadows off the wall. The curtain flapped
and danced the trees like undulating
goddesses that I would never meet.

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