Floyd

He shaved his neck
down to his chest
in the eighth grade.
He was cool.
The best slow dancer in high school.
He had the shiniest shoes
spit-shined with steel clips shaped like half-moons
fastened with copper rivets on the heels.
His Levi jeans draped just right,
tight, rolled cuffs, exactly a half inch over the heels.

He played football, and after the game at the dance,
his Saint Christopher medal tangled in his shiny, black chest hair
when he slow danced and dipped the big girls
we always gaped at because of their broad hips and long legs.

I ran into him years later
selling men’s shoes in a dark, narrow store
in the city, a 100 miles from our valley home.
I felt sorry for him.
My hero. The coolest guy in high school,
He was a man in the eighth grade,
shaving his neck
to his chest hair, with a pack
of Luckys in his t-shirt sleeve
and a new, leather jacket.