Memory From My Sophomore Year

I told a man whose name I do not really, now, remember,
about the many bad poems that I wrote when near his age;

of nineteen seventy-eight, January to September,

but my then lover took all of those poems, each on its page,
and tossed them in the dom's trash bin, just minutes from their shelf;

and this was done not for some spite or in a seething rage,

but to spare hot embarrassment felt by my future self.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

Thanks, Lady Chausette, for intervening in November of that year, just before we left for Christmas break together.

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