When I was twelve
a hurdler was my hero.

He was sixteen
had ripple abs
a brush cut vertical
without hair wax
eyes yellow and
indifferent as a cat’s.

His girl (bulging
striped tube tops)
was long on giggles and
lipstick before breakfast.

They were fixed stars
on the block, Polaris
around whom our
small moons revolved.

Now, decades on,
I see them still the week
his family packed to move
to Florida (for us

as far as Mars):
two twined forms beneath
a streetlamp, sliding already
into separate worlds.