a poem for charlotte

when I was a kid in the seventies,
the fashion was, in my town
for men to be hairy and big, dark,
while for women, to be blonde and pretty,
but it was Charlotte, thin as
the new Sycamore growing in her yard,
with black, straight-banged hair that
stuck to her forehead from sweating,
who liked me.

she was a pixie, lacking the curves
of Racquel Welch, who remained
my unaware constant companion,
she simply was always with me,
through kick the can, hide and seek,
chasing me first when playing tag,

and now, years on, well after
I moved to a new neighborhood,
forgot all about her when I had
my first real kiss in eighth grade,
it occurs to me the devotion
Charlotte showed me, in those years,
when street lamps came on
only when the sun set
and Sycamores were young
and unnamed.