in
the fence slats from the western cadmium yellow skies
to
where I sat with my girl in back of the flats
weighing
on her slippery tongue.
This
was where Pan and Puck once laid down their law
in
the forest spring before our court of dryad kin there
behind
the swings in the high grass and straw
where
no one saw our dew-kissed skin and
where
we thought we’d be forever young.
But
who makes the law for this armpit called suburbia,
this
Pan’s domain where me and her sit up parole
imprisoned
in chains by the power lines to remain
in
the backyards waiting to be hung?
The
same who make the law about
what
this boy and girl should do to escape it—
To
escape our screen door’s lock jaw
and
the sidewalk with the weeds and drape it
with
noon blues needing to be sung.
But
time hit on everyone as the kids I knew all grew
and
we all found a new fun for the games beyond the chains,
the
swing sets and merry-go-rounds all stayed but
we
were more grounded when we swung.
It’s
just that at some point we all grew up,
and
when once we gazed outward to explore,
now
turned inward toward our bodies and blew up
if
just to find a new terrain to gore
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