Crossing the Street
J. Speer
a car speeds towards us
lights ahead of revving engine
mother grabs my hand
warns me of on-coming danger
i resent her protectiveness
pull my hand away, say:
i’ve walked after dark in central park
hitch hiked to santa monica beach and north to
edmonton with 20¢ in my pocket
slept under bridges on interstate 40 while
trucks rumbled all night
was attacked by five drunk rowdies on way to santa fe
smoked the same havana cigar for three days while reading shakespeare
wrote a letter to father on the sunday his head went down
got drunk on bourbon street with marty magraw in nouveau jeans
“i wasn’t born yesterday”, i say
the car zooms by
“you will always be my boy”, she says
