Walking behind the young man paused
before the sliced meats in the grocery store,

I felt my feet skid to a stop at the sight of
the back of his head, the sandy blond hair

curling down to his collar, the style of many
a young man a half century ago when

such things began to matter to me—
almost feminine, above broad shoulders

and the narrow waist of one who
could be a swimmer, one whose hair

whispered to my fluttering fingers,
You know you want to.

I could not immediately place
the face of the one whose locks

my hands spent so much time fondling,
but my fingers knew the silk of that hair

as though they had explored it yesterday.
And the breath I did not realize

I had been holding left me
in a whoosh of remembrance,

more vibrant for its decades
of absence, leaving me

a little woozy, a feeling I have
happily not forgotten.