I would have gone into Scottie's garage to the mattress with you when I was nine and you were twelve, or seemed like you were.

And we would have lain on that bare bed-like thing in a shaft of light and dust.

We might have laughed too.

Initiation rights, the kind I always wanted, might have occurred on that worn out piece of flotsam in a back alley idea of someone's suburban dream in the 1960's.

Between two poets who were destined to meet up anyway, so it was fate, sunshine.

Definitely fate.