John W. Evans Hobbes to Calvin
Twenty years ago I swung upside down all June,
calmly chomping tuna fish, trying not to stress.
When the decade turned, you cursed a lack of moon
colonies. Mooned the whole class. Continued to obsess
about Calvinball, Spaceman Spiff, that snake
in the grass, Susie, whose one prank made the point moot:
girls can't take jokes. The next day, she baked you a cake.
Walking out to the woods, you said, "She's a real beaut,"
meaning the cake, but I saw how her Garbo
cool got to you, what you really wanted to play.
"I'll be me and you be Susie." You called me, "Hobo."
Then your mom took me away. The magazines, too. The day
you made your move you bought a pendant rhinestone.
I hid under your shirts, dizzy with cheap cologne.