Cecily

Don’t be fooled
by her rebel hair.
She smiles constantly-
gives a lot of gentle grins.
I see her motherly wings
around her black leather children,
her body too young for her soul.
She loves new wave
and plays in a punk rock band
on the weekends.
But she is no tragic child.
In her carboat she easily
gives the right of way
with her two syllable laugh
and silver pierced tongue.
She “don’t drink-don’t smoke”
but orders Shirley Temples
with a sugar cherry on top.
And I felt a certain security
sitting in her backseat
driving on the 405,
even if that is as close
as we ever were.
She keeps a lot of quarters
for the juke box
and for playing pool.
She looks like an angel
in her Catholic skirt
and leopard print Creepers.
I know how much she loves
chocolate and coffee,
calls her boyfriend “Boo,”
and likes watching cartoons and porn.
I am not one of her children,
spiked hair and tattoos.
But I do belong
when I show up at her house
for a barbecue or
waiting while she dresses
and puts on make up she doesn’t need.
It’s because of her I am no longer
the world’s worst pool player.

8-25-99