murky and aflame. I watched,
blinking, the setting sun
catch and burnish the glass and flanks of the cabs

to wander
between the winds, and find
no home, to scour

Tired of the eighties, and the on-
going crisis in masculinity—the compliment 
each generation pays itself—he stared 

Never put your personal spoon in the common jelly bowl.
Spread your napkin upon your lap. Do not grasp.
Eat what meat your fork can get to; the rest of the lobster must be given up for lost.

Was handed the pamphlet of maxims, took it into my heart, folks did
                that then.

Being made to drink vinegar from a sponge,
that part was true. And feeling bad for the lepers.
Being a Cub Scout with a glue gun

The year of stepping out from the matinee
onto the bright sidewalk and waiting
for our mothers to pull up in tan station wagons.

No sadness. Secrecy’s a sweet wine we sip from one cup.   
Someone sits alone in her car in the dark, listening to the engine tick.
Now she’s OK, she enters the house.

Shall we go then, just to the corner
And no farther, not like lovers and other strangers
Who catch the same bus, and ride off together

Drive-by birth—this mother snares a cab.
Shoots up, delivers, leaves her baggage
Backseat to the world—boy born, tab