I’m smiling, sort of, but if you look harder
you can see the bags under my eyes are
filled with freshman anticipation for something
I never found in a film canister full
of twenty-dollar tequila.
Peter looks younger than I remember.
His hair is short and his beard is patchy.
He’s standing with strangely good posture for
someone holding a half-empty beer in a cluttered
dorm room after curfew.
Jonathan’s wearing the cap I got at Family Thrift,
holding that coat rack that wouldn’t fit
over the door.
He’s looking toward the camera,
but not at the camera.
Our bodies are all stopped mid-dance and
Jonathan’s mouth is ajar,
like he’s about to tell Kelsey
not to take the picture
cause we all look like
–shit.
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