Rob S. Friedman
December 2021
Par 4
In the naive times, with belt-length hair and a copy of Mao’s little red book at his hip, he watched her not watch him. She was lustrous curls and he was fifteen, all id and aching.
In the angry times, consumed by betrayal stunning him flat, he railed through his day, wondering where the ache had gone.
In the knowing times, dismay rested on one side of the fulcrum as he gathered the opposite of grimness.
Rounding the turn at Torrey Pines, as bald as the ball at his toe, he watched a schooner rise and fall, and all was id and aching.
Rob S. Friedman 