I’m nestled beside him
on the bench seat of his ’56 Chevy.
In our last year of high school
we are going steady

playing the padiddle game.
I’m first to spot one—
a car with one headlight out.
I’m demanding a kiss
when we hear a thump on the tire
and he looks out the rear-view mirror,

says It’s a dog.
The farm around the curve
I know is Uncle Paul’s
where Dad and I put up hay that summer.

During breaks, we’d rest on the lawn,
creased with sweaty dirt from the field,
applauding Oscar, their sleek dachshund
with velvety fur who’d entertain us with tricks:

he’d shake hands
dance on two legs
jump through
Uncle Paul’s hooped arms.

Standing over that dog
now panting in the ditch
I am fervent for one last
redemptive
miraculous trick.

—Nancy Jesse

JUDGE’S COMMENTS: “Narrative efficiency and clarity as well as the handling of time are outstanding in this poem of a decades old youthful memory. There’s guilt in this recollection from many years ago, but also wisdom and compassion enough to forgive the seventeen-year-self. The title ‘Seventeen’ is the perfect choice to emphasize those ideas.”