Trouble always starts with a smile,
especially when punctuated with deep
hazel eyes. Come seven on a Saturday,
my heartbeat syncs with the song on the radio,
my left foot sinks as it races nightfall,
and the goblin within heads for
where the wild things are.
Wild nights – Wild nights! Were I with thee…
we would charge the alleys of hailstorm abandon.
But beware the badgering foe of fun:
the Lilliputian leash of children asunder.
A mental head-on collision ensues,
night racing past me twenty years to victory.
I surrender the sport and retreat to the driveway.
I am far from curfew,
and this is not my parents’ home.
Yet, I am doomed to restriction nonetheless.
Homebound, I look to my hero for salvation. Going deep
into his eyes, he awaits me on his motorcycle –
two-wheeled freedom revving my memory;
black chrome foreplay speeding toward graduation.
My domesticated rebel now rides a Toyota
that seats six, wired for every form of digital libido traveling.
Psychic in ways of a married man,
he picks up the scent of impending desperation.
With a sparkle of green punctuating his gaze,
he pours me a glass of my only surviving vice,
Comments about this poem (Controlled Rebellion by Lori Boulard )
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