little wild ones

Come down off that mountain,

my little wild one.

Always liking the misfits better.

Always up in your head,

taking your pants off.

St. Dominic, the patron saint

of juvenile delinquents

and choir boys.

Those sons of bitches

would steal a nickel

right off a dead man's eye.

last spring

laying on the military trunk

breathing afternoon woodsmoke

dried mud caking my feet

paint chips scraping my soft skin

wearing my boyfriend's flannel shirt

and the bradford pear

smelling like a man

listening

Part of being grown

is not giving in

to every urge you may have.

Are you listening?

The turtle carries

her shell, slowly,

but surely progressing.

Are you listening?

The good men out there

build clouds

and us girls lay in them,

laughing hysterically.

Are you listening?

Doing the old dance,

believing what you are shown,

not what you're dreaming.

Are you listening?

Dangling on the edge of a clock,

flying on blue currents

of adrenaline and immaturity.

You could bounce on my smile.

Are you listening?