Remember that spastic thing you used to do when we were out scaring civilians?
I'd smoke, and you'd swear -
leaves caught in our hair
and graveyard dirt
on the cuffs of our jeans.
We were the Wish We Were Dead Poets Society,
you and me.
Embarrassingly, endearingly earnest;
certain that the world was about to end
and churning inside to write it all down
Can't go back again.
When I told you that I'd become a teacher
(all these years later)
it was if I'd confessed to hosting a game show in hell.
Sell out, sell out, sell . . .
unsaid the Burning Man just back from Burning Man.
I understood. But, understand . . .
I still poet and rage
just like the old days
against the sorry state of this world.
I'm the same/not quite the same girl.
It's just that everything
is not personal
Remembering for Karin's prompt at Real Toads. Tough exercise! I'm still not quite happy with this, but maybe it'll clean up later.