New And Improved Poem by Brian Rihlmann

When I was thirteen,
some neighborhood kids and I
found a brown paper bag
by the side of the road,
with a gold mine inside.

We argued,
divvied up the spoils,
and pedaled our bikes home,
booty stashed in waistbands
under sweaty tshirts.

I kept mine hidden under
my mattress, to savor
the glossy images
of those bodies
at my leisure.

Things are different now,
new and improved,
you might say,
for teenagers on phones
and computers.

An endless array of images
open doors those boys never thought
of passing through,
and into forbidden hallways
lit in red and pink,
dim and seductive.

They explore this labyrinth
in dark bedrooms,
drawn to the intensity,
the next strange fetish,
the stronger high,
their faces flushed,
their eyes dilated,

as scowling, incredulous
teenage girlfriends say,
"You want me to do what? "