Teen Redheads and Better Days

Walking the dozen
or so
blocks between
breakfast and
coffee,
killing the day
that comes
before the
library opens it's
loving arms,
I search the faces
in windshields
and those that
frown and hurry
down cement paths.

Looking for
the poem.

Swollen mother clouds
just for a moment
open up and allow
a late winter sun
to peek as well,
and that is when I see you.
It is not you,
of course,
this girl is only
beginning life,
all of her happiness
and heartache,
still just beyond
the tips of her
teen age fingers.
But her red hair
ablaze
in the morning light,
and untamed smile
remind me of you
and the carefree
days of spring.

Passing her by
I stop and look
at my reflection
in a window;
no more punk
haircuts,
or parachute pants.

Just a middle age man,
with unquenchable
memories of days
when my greatest
fears and follies
lay just out of reach.