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It’s the boy down the street
who played baseball on the corner lot,
kickball in the street,
back when he chose you for his team.
Girls were hitters, then,
or runners, flat-chested and narrow-hipped,
one of the guys. No teen crush,
backseat heat—trying your moves,
testing his. The shoebox spills
his cocky grin, tousled hair,
raised fist whooping victory.
The face brings a bittersweet smile.
Just a boy you knew,
back before boy/girl dynamics
You wonder what he’s doing now?
If he’s married? To whom?
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