Two poems about Scott, and that toga-adjusting time we had in high school



buck up

once, when i was 17,
scott pace asked me for
help in adjusting his toga.
scott pace was president
of the latin club, and
he was also a body builder.
i was treasurer of the latin
club. there was some
speech he was giving,
and he asked me to
go into the locker
room with him, just
him and me, so that
i could adjust his
toga before he
gave his speech. i should have
made a pass at him.
no matter what happened,
i should have
made a pass at him.
but, i didn't.
i adjusted his toga.
and that was it.
i was very careful with
those safety pins.
scott's back was broad
and muscled and smooth, and
his nipples were
tiny and hard and beautiful.
**
now i'm 60 years old.
i was once young & sexy.
things i might have
been able to get away
with when i was
young and sexy,
i couldn't get
away with now.
**
it's possible that
scott pace would
have done sexy stuff
with me had i made
a pass at him when
i was 17 and he was 18
and we were trying to
get that damn toga of
his adjusted.
**
it would be nice to know.
**
now, days drip by
like cooling candle wax,
and migratory patterns of
aging rectangular solids
are of little interest to
anyone i find circulatory.
**
nostalgia ain't bullshit.
nostalgia is grieving
for things that once were,
things that might have been,
but, now, things
that just don't stand
a fuckin chance.

--Carl Miller Daniels (2012)

=========================

verbs

i was shy skinny and squirrelly and 17.
scott pace was 18, a body-builder,
winner of mr rectus abdominus, teenage division.
even his name sounded masculine: scott pace.
scott pace was also president of the latin club.
he was strong and quiet, definite leadership material.
his mom taught algebra and trig at the same
high school.
i was shy skinny and squirrelly and manic-depressive,
and treasurer of the latin club.
i didn't know i was gay. but i knew
that scott pace looked great.
a rock. a muscular guy, a smart guy,
a quiet masculine guy. one night he had to give
a speech in toga for some latin club program
that we were having.
i was already in my toga, white sheet,
pinned just right.
scott was unhappy with the way his own
toga was hanging on him.
he asked me to go into the locker room
with him, and help him adjust his toga.
just him and me.
he was muscular, sexy, quiet,
dark, handsome.
he talked to me about
some people thought it was
weird to care about one's body so much.
but he said he really liked body-building,
the way it made him feel good about himself.
his nipples were two tiny pink dots riding
on mounds of muscle.
i was 17 shy skinny squirrelly manic-dpressive,
and not yet sure of my homosexuality.
he was 18 mr teenage rectus abdominus.
under what
became the nicely adjusted shoulder strap of his toga,
his back was broad and sexy and oh so smooth,
and smelled vaguely of dial soap,
as i recall.
i'm 59 years old now.
still, i think back and wonder what
would have happened if i'd made a pass at
him that night
when he asked me
to help him adjust
his toga. if i'd touched
him in some sexual way,
would he have been repulsed?
would he have recoiled in disgust?
or, would he have hugged me, and
kissed me, and told me everything
was all right.
but, we got his toga adjusted,
and left the locker room, and he
gave his speech,
and that was pretty much that,
scott at 18,
and me at 17,
years big elephants
over the alps like
hannibal
who spoke fluent latin,
but probably never
conjugated any of those
sissy little verbs.

--Carl Miller Daniels (2012)