"Ephebic Cries"
Then existed a boy, threaded together by a dead mother's love, and empty door frames. The fearlessness was a shield, Imaginary. Then a boy existed, who wore baggy jeans and a heaping amount of Citré Shine Hair Gel over his frosted tips. Then he was 18 years old, he talked back, violated speed limits, and ran laps alone, down the block, late after sundown. He lived in a home of Instability, but he peeled his socks off in bed, his room rooted in heat, hungover he slept in. He was fevered and knotted with fresh business by the hours. Now? I’m 48 years old and I’m not married. I don’t run anymore, not with my back too sore and my ankles swollen. My stability? I’m glued down strong. Now, it is a lonely place. Now, I wring my hands at an office cubicle, with razor nicks eating my neck. But when I doze off, I witness the hot hands around his back, kissing her lips of a blurred complexion. The crowd and the thumping of a Stereo, it was a fog so dampened by ephebic life. My memory serves ...