We were arrogant but we were kind

We just wanted something for our money

even though for us it was unearned

So embarrassing that

at 15 it was probably

one of my first conversations

with an African American

I said very little and never let on

The heat twisted through the alleys of Back Bay

as he recited his memorized meal ticket

of Dylan Thomas

Many of the boys and one girl began to lose interest

to their thirst and the gift of freedom that summer laid at their feet

But one boy listened

This boy’s mother was a cellist before the accident

and read the same poem to him

“That was perfect”

Years had passed when I saw him in the same clothes

while waiting for my ride to the wedding

after all of the record stores had disappeared

Transfixed to what felt like the same moment a thousand years removed

without an umbrella

without the frailty and misgivings of the freedoms of youth

I couldn’t help but pay attention this time

to every single word

and the soft nuances of the hunger in his delivery

I’ll never understand the definition of perfection