for want of a piece of hose

Years ago, I’d ride a stolen bike

across campus to the grounds shed,

rake leaves in large piles

for a truck to gather and carry away,

sit in class, leaf mold

and debris on jeans and boots,

compete with the leisure class

for grades, laugh at sorority girls

who’d pull at short skirts

if I turned to look, smirk at frat boys

too stupid to remember Greek letters

so they wore them on their chest,

cop a buzz with friends,

pull a peanut butter sandwich

from a drab green bag bought

at army surplus, go back to class,

maybe, go to the gym,

hang with friends until 2 am,

disappear for a day or a week,

hitchhike to a demonstration,

get lost in the woods, slip to the border,

make a deal, sneak it back across,

lie to professors, running on empty,

siphoning gas without a hose.

10-28-20