POEM: Dancing through the Graveyard

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What’s the age at which dancing on a grave switches from an adorable bubbling over of life

to a

deplorable act of petty vindictiveness?

I saw a boy — clearly in the former category — pull it off,

but I knew that if I joined in the best I could hope for was an evil eye. And the worst would be to be slapped, kicked, or spat upon.

For I long ago crossed the river of innocence beyond which lie presumptions of foul intent.

An ever-watchful Orphean world keeps me from crossing back over that Stygian river.

Oh, to live life on the other bank.

POEM: To BE… Or Not

Copy of IMG_1580“What do you want to BE when you grow up?”

They ask you when you’re just a little pup.

So, what part of what I must BE,

is different from the me you see?

Dad thought, “the part that they’ll pay you for.”

Like an allowance for finishing a chore?

“Yes, young man, but you can safely assume, 

no one else will pay you to clean your room.”

 

Kids don’t think of being gainfully employed.

 

Which seems to make grownups quite annoyed.

At five, I wanted to be a cowboy.

“Son, there’s no jobs in that line of employ.”

That’s OK, then I’ll be an Indian.

“You’d have to be born that way, my friend.”

I wasn’t born a doctor, but you said that’s OK.

“That’s not the same, son, what can I say?”

I know what then, Dad, I’ll be the Batman!

“Come on, son, that’s not a feasible plan.”

You’re thinking Superman, Batman has no powers.

“Bruce Wayne by day, Batman at night, where’s the sleeping hours.”

You have a point there, you’ve got me stumped.

Thinking myself prematurely defunct.