Spike's Story

She called me Spike. Like twenty years had fled,

and I was back in hallways, locker-bound.

Her smile was wide, the things she saw, she said,

a phantom 'me' she'd faithfully still found.

She spun a tale, about a prank I played,

with water balloons and the principal's car.

My face felt numb, a stranger's part I'd made,

a boy she knew, from some forgotten star.

I stood there, listening, this person she recalled,

all bravado and a mischievous streak.

He seemed so loud, so carelessly enthralled,

the voice she heard, a language I don't speak.

Her eyes held onto him, that bright, raw kid.

The self I am, she never saw, or hid.