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also made us the leaders of the eighth grade. News of it spread, naturally, which we really couldn’t object to, since we did most of the spreading ourselves. And when people came for more details, they got them from the both of us, together. We were always together, me and Zock. We were our own gang. We were a foundation and the others were alone. And when you’re alone you look for something to be with, something solid. So they all came to us. Zock was a sort of silent partner, because things worked out better that way, him not being much good at sports, whereas I was. And I already described how he looked, being ugly, while I was more the All-American-boy type—good build, blue eyes, nice smile. Even Zock’s smile was crooked, and I often thought that God should have given him something decent looking on the outside, instead of putting it all in, hiding it, so that nobody could ever see it at first glance.
    But make no mistake, we were the head, the two of us, walking side by side. And behind us came “Buttons” Dooley, a very nice kid and so called because one day he came to school unbuttoned in exactly the wrong place, which was pretty funny at the time. And Johnny Hunkley, the strongest boy in school but such a slob that nobody cared. Plus nine or ten others. We did the things gangs usually do, such as switching street signs or scaring Miss Blaul, the old virgin librarian, by hooting outside her window at night. And other juvenile activities which I am not particularly proud of but which did nobody any lasting harm that I can see.
    So eighth grade went by, as did the summer following, and when it was almost gone, Zock took to acting funny for a while, and I didn’t see him much. I went swimming with the gang, horsing around, the bunch of us just killing time until the shift into high.
    Then one evening, right after supper, I was sitting on the front porch reading a magazine when Zock sauntered over. “Have we met?” I asked him as he came. “Your face certainly looks familiar, because nobody could forget a face like that. Do you have a name? What do people call you?” And I chattered on and on. He didn’t answer, but just sat down in a rocker and began going back and forth, back and forth. “Cat got your tongue?” I asked, using one of his mother’s favorite expressions.
    He looked at me. “Want to read a poem?” When I said sure, he handed me a sheet of paper. “Let me know what you think,” he said. “Come right over when you’re done.” Then he ran off.
    I opened the paper. It read:
    So seize the moment
    While there is a moment yet to seize.
    Take it now.
    Else faceless Time
    Creep in on little cat’s feet
    To take it.
    While I love you; while my love falls
    Like love shaken from a petal.
    Take me now.
    I must have read that poem over about twenty times right then, I thought it was so beautiful. I studied every word until I knew what the whole thing meant. After which I tore over to his house. He was sitting in his room.
    “Well?” he said.
    “What the hell is it?” I asked, very serious.
    “It’s supposed to be a poem.”
    “I know that. But what’s it mean? Exactly.”
    “Whatever you want it to mean. That’s the wonderful thing about poetry.”
    “Who do you want to take you, Zock? Who are you in love with?”
    “Jesus,” he said. “I’m not in love. It’s a poem.”
    “And what about those cat’s feet?”
    “I stole that,” he admitted.
    “What for?”
    “It’s legal. In poetry it’s legal. Everybody does it.”
    “And what about this ‘love falling like love’ part? Is that what you meant? Shouldn’t it be love falling like water? Or dew. How about dew?”
    “It’s an image,” Zock yelled and I saw I’d gone too far, so I stopped. But it was too late. He snatched the paper out of my hand, ripping it. “Goddam you,” he shouted. “Goddam you to hell!” And then he swung on me, something he hadn’t done since that very first day.
    I ducked easy enough and