I still want to be one of the boys, the stiff crowd, pressing up against her in frightful places, faces flushed, waiting our turn at the troth, the privileged all boys club that gets her as first prize, but only if each does what she tells them to do, and maybe, I once was one, now I’m not, pressed against a bedpost instead, working out my pain, the long, lost sheep whose flock as moved on without me, moaning in the meadow but no one hears, getting what satisfaction I can get from being alone, when in fact I would trade it all away for a chance to be part of the flock again, scurrying behind her, baying for her attention, when I know I’ll never get the chance, watching it all transpire from a distance with other boys, living in a limbo, a non-existence, when all the other boys will get what I want, as long as they wait their turn, and gives her whatever she wants.
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