The last time I saw you was February, 1969.
You surprised me at my apartment.
You were dressed in your white drug store uniform.

I don’t know if the tie was hung on the doorknob,
(or the sock, more likely since I didn’t own a tie)
but my roommates stayed gone that afternoon.

I had been watching you for three years.
You had the most wonderfilled lips,
with a muscle car boyfriend who had been around all the while.

You came in and we drank juice.
We talked in my hippy bedroom about Dylan.
We kissed to “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.”

We talked/touched on top of my tee shirt and your stiff nylon
Until your boyfriend sounded long anger in the street.
You looked afraid and pleaded for me to stay while you left.

I wondered about you for weeks – remembered.
The snow melted. I heard you were killed
In your car by a freight train at an unlit country crossing.

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