by Marshall Jamison

He was fifteen. His girl, a year older
But not much wiser, kissed him hard twice,
Drew a deep breath and told him, “Late,
Five weeks late.” He responded to the kisses
With passion, got up from the couch,
Ran a comb through his hair, and smiling
Sympathetically,
Walked out of the basement play room,
Out of her life forever.
She never forgot or forgave him.
After a long, long time he finally forgave himself.

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