Classmate
He never raised his hand,
sat in the back, stared at
the wall--silent.
Always the same clothes for gym
retrieved from the locker's bottom
still damp from the previous class.
Between periods he limped as if
he wore two right shoes.
No books, no talk.
He showed up for a reunion
with a car as big as a whale,
still silent, still limping.
Someone asked his wife--
a beauty with dark hair, fair skin
what did he do to make money?
Her eyes smiled before her lips.
He buys land where no one lives
until they need to.
- Robert Halleck 2019
Robert Halleck lives in Del Mar, California with his muse Della Janis. He has been writing poems since 1959. He is a member of San Diego's Not Dead Yet Poets and hopes to continue that membership for many years to come.
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