Enough of the New
I shall soon be sharing my oldest poems
for they were songs of rage
and psalms of warning against
evil men with lust for power.
We must remember how the pen
was all we had in opposition.
(( In prior days we ate our Wheaties;
we played hide-and-seek
in lush back yards and made water
on the trunks of trees like little dogs.
We coaxed the girls
to pull down their pants,
to show us what it was rumored
they lacked, while we giggled
like drunken elves, each little wee-wee
so mysteriously hard it hurt,
for we as yet had no release
for these confusing passions,
nor any notion then of how
those girls, grown knowing,
would so easily play us
in the power of their elements ))
Venerable now, we are perhaps resigned
to this new world governed by our well-raised sons,
careful souls who walk above our nodding heads,
their competent feet shod in tender slippers,
as they check the locks and douse the lights.
I shall begin to share my oldest poems,
for we must never forget
how we carried our souls in our empty hats
as we made our desperate escape,
or were sent into terminal exile
by grown-up girls entrenched on angry beds.