In the almost musty basement, with the TV playing,
Sharon and I were on the sofa making out.
Urgent kisses, clothes a-jumble, smooth bare skin.
And Walter Cronkite broke in:
"President Kennedy has been shot….”
Shocked, we turned away and watched the world convulse.

We drifted apart,
each to ourselves, changed.

But in the autumn of my life, sometimes at night,
I still think of  
that blustery autumn day in Ioway.