by Forrest Miller
At some damn gas station in Sturgis
We pulled over and there was that guy
You dated in high school. You couldn’t
Remember his name, but recalled how
He looked like a Midwest sky in powder blue
’70’s tux with white ruffles. He wanted
to go to Yale. Now he was just some jackass
who sold insurance, probably. That led to stories
about Hank, the guy that took you out for a barrel
roll in his private plane, but never really fell in love
with you. You lost yourself in cheap boxed wine
and lousy internet men just a few years later.
I remember my first love, but don’t know
what she’s doing these days.