When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street
when it mattered the most? You say
why is it that when we age
that drift of sensual exhibition seems to drift from us,
an exhibition that knows no boundaries except
to exploit what we once innocently felt,
like an impulse waiting to explode,
then implodes from the inside out.
that used to be us. . .young, wicked, dangerous, un-wise,
un-visceral, un-universal, genuine angst at its unpolluted
but somehow we have become polluted with the
do’s and don’ts, the acceptable and unacceptable,
the conventional and unconventional of age
so why should we live by those fucking rules? You grab
my hand and pull me close to you, and far from them,
in my mind you are still sixteen, and your kiss still tastes
of Marlboro mint faintly washed by a bottle of domestic beer
just like the night I snuck out of my parents’ house
to make-out with you beneath a lighted pole on the corner of a street.
