Days of Being Wild
It was then you stretched your tempers thin as table glass,
softest sound destined as star-burning shatter,
in those nights at the turnstile point,
swinging leg dipped to humid water of subway
staircases: flapper starlet in frozen hourglass.
Crane, swan form in flutter, licking of
light wounds in the tepid grace of dollar store
cross stations, mechanical reprinting of inspired
words we'd paint on the halls in teenage anarchy.
Slip-drunk in the tangle of construction beams,
garbled phrases you regret in funereal call
of 35 years and an oncoming train tunnel,
we looked toothsome aside, caricatures on washed brick,
when you asked about the point of all heavy footsteps:
“you had your being wild, I had my parchment pens.”