What, though, could they learn
here, Pennsylvania’s slate sky
dull above the cortege of worn-out buses,
with brown bag lunches
with brown bag lunches
and the sheer fact of sex
they haven’t quite yet come
they haven’t quite yet come
to acknowledge, though the boys
are trying to toss grapes
are trying to toss grapes
down a poor girl’s blouse,
are pelting her now with their
are pelting her now with their
intent, and just as quickly
as it begins, this game
as it begins, this game
of the body, the boys lose interest
when some gust blows a bag
when some gust blows a bag
of chips—flashing like tinsel
between the boulders—
between the boulders—
out of their sweaty hands
and they’re shrieking
and they’re shrieking
down Little Round Top,
receiving the good girls’ glares,
receiving the good girls’ glares,
girls who have witnessed
their mothers’ stern admonishments
their mothers’ stern admonishments
and know this is a kind
of love where they come from,
of love where they come from,
a town whose history
holds less blood
holds less blood
than the ground they’ve walked
all morning, dutifully
all morning, dutifully
