Scowl

I saw the nicest girls of my generation
destroyed by daring, weeping hysterical naked
hearts exposed to men who shrugged and shrank
into their cool guy collars, wishing to be elsewhere,

mother hearted lassies with acne-scarred faces surrendering
virginities to cripples out of love but
accused from wheelchairs of betrayals and whoredoms,

who trusted in talk, traded caresses for carapaces
of leather with letters of FOOTBALL, RUGBY, TRACK
title deeds of love that shifted from locker to locker,

who leaned on gentle, musical men,
misread their temperence, stocked hope chests as barren as
their boyfriends' intentions, found the notes, the empty
bottles, called the ambulances, will always be friends,

who took calls in the morning from moaning men whose mothers
lived
long
distance,

who shared readings and reflections with right-on religious,
were seduced by seminarians (not suited to celibacy) with
sympathetic psychiatrists ("and at least it was girls"),

who were good sports, big sis, great pals, just friends, their rocks, second mothers, right hands, girl Fridays, you knew where you were with them, they were

completely to be relied upon, there was

no nonsense about them, they were the

salt of the earth.

The bitches got rich or married young.