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With arched feet, And a life line shorter than my parents' patience with my direction. I cross the cement, and lay my head on the hood of my car. I expect in the morning I will be apologizing for my lack of foresight, my lust for things hackneyed and unrelenting, and for two x chromosomes. I guess that open minded parents breed radicals with baited breath and troubled circulation to the brain and the need to have that which is straight, yet ambiguous and cleaner than the laundry on Jenny's line. When tomorrow comes, (the predictable beast) I will bow my head and avoid eye contact with her. Because my boots have crossed boundaries set up by faceless senators and sisters and society women, who never felt love for the intangible, and hate for the commonplace. Someday, I'll climb up from my palisade in the dirt, mount a horse, and look down at you and Jenny. Or, I'll just start my car, leave town. or, maybe, I'll just go for coffee where the waitress knows me by name. |
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