Juvenescence

An architect tells me

the suburbs are pubescent.

Where I learned to smoke,

smooch, insert a tampon.

Street names bolster deceit

Wonderland Dr. and Cinderella Ct.

Spring Creek Parkway

six lanes, no water.

Suburban schooling promises

gun safety, comfortable chairs.

Boundary testers flee to

pull the impalpable taut.

My peers attempt urban

parenting, even if they loved

their progenitors obstinance.

They Zipcar, buy a starter home,

find a place to organize

tools and adult ideas.

Boys Who Need Haircuts

will tell you it’s intentional—

not juvenile lion imitation.

Boys who need haircuts

hope to attract girls

who are unselfconscious

about their bra straps.

Unselfconscious girls

are not necessarily

those of adequate

self-esteem. She can

be counted on for categorical

plumage, cautious traipse.

Lockered hallway whispers

a syllable that could be yours.

Adolescence is No Joke

despite hilarious appearances by Freud

and pus-filled faces. The continuum

of embarrassing moments

could spit you out in an instant

despite your propensity for binge drinking

in an alley or fallow sorghum fields.

The aftermath is the same:

backseat, hotel, hot tub, clinic.

The years between anxiety and

hold-your-own keys, populated

with perpetual reprimands,

clandestine research, full-time

attempts to synthesize the self.