In Place Of A Bucolic Eclogue

I was thirteen years old, or no more than fourteen.
My long hair was a wild mop when not slicked down.
My baggy tee-shirt, tie-dyed in metallic colors
was considered subversively psychedlic
by my parents, who had been informed of this
on conservative talkshows broadcast on A M
(F M was far too progressive for them).
The wide bell-bottoms of my faded jeans
did not quite conceal my surreptitious bare feet,
grass-stained and street-grimed while my parents
were absent on one of their summertime shopping sprees.

I was sitting, cross-legged, on the backporch swing.


You surprised me at the back-gate and walked in,
wearing a similar tee-shirt and jeans---
both of which emphasized your fulsome curves;
and I was a scrawny stick in mine,
"not very manly"---my parents' term,
often repeated to me with obvious shame;
"not manly at all with dirty bare feet."

You had left your shoes provocatively at home;
your feet sheathed in socks, of deep "hunter green."
You joined me on the swing, and we began to rock,
and then to kiss---with tonguing wild and wet.
We must have kissed a hundred times or more:
the old farts, had they been there, would have shrieked in shock.





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patriciajj's picture

This takes me back . . . Yes

This takes me back . . . Yes I was there, on a porch very similar, in "subversive" clothes, almost wishing my ultra conservative parents would catch me and be horrified, because what fun is it to be rebellious if you can't shock someone? This is wonderful -- it hit home with well-crafted description and that general feeling of a brilliantly insane time. 

Starward's picture

Thank you for that comment. 

Thank you for that comment.  I am glad you could relate to the story in the poem.


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