I wish, as this year winds down,
that I could be more cheerful,
more excited about Seventeen.
 
I was promised a time when
I could watch the sunset
on another planet's moon,
where the sky is filled by an arc
that makes your head spin,
the little hairs on your neck
standing up to the glory.
 
It's true.  Science told me so.
On TV, the father knew best
and the mother had pointy breast,
and the boy and the girl played
with robots that taught morality.
 
In that world, no one worked
from dawn to dusk clicking things,
then walking home in the dark,
stepping over junkies passed out
amidst their green memorabilia,
construction crane overhead
lit up as the Christmas tree
swaying from spot to spot
tearing down or putting up
vertical fortresses with no pity.
 
Home wasn't where the bills are,
where children stare into a square
shrunk down or stretched into
yet another personal war zone.
 
The boss didn't reign supreme,
didn't throw tantrums then beat
his hyper inflated war chest.
He had wisdom. You could see it
when he averted his grey eyes
from you toward the distant shore,
the far future, the heavy weight
of responsibility his alone.
 
I want to escape into the naivety
of the early discovery, the glint,
the thrill of now with nostalgia
with what could have been,
had we not fallen into the lap
of nazi and clergy with no mercy.
 
 
jam16