by Murray McCartan
Children tightly aligned
together and repeatedly told
to stay in their rows will
eventually wiggle to loosen
the limits of their fixed position.
Each juvenile coup taking root
in a flight of bloody
delight, a hubris journey
pursuing a sweet identity
until corrupted by cavities
of love and loss, each mid-life
crisis of decay, complete with mundane
compensations of crowns
and fillings, and the aging
permanence of grinding teeth.
Image: black and white by Cassey via Flickr.
I am delighted by the playfulness and truth in this poem. Wonderful!
Thank you, Arbor.
Just great. It’s one of those poems that gets better every time I read it.
Thank you, Petrea. So glad you enjoyed it.
My sentiments exactly!