There is something to be said

about growing up with

the up-to-no-goods.

The girl I fogged

stick-shift windows with

left.

I am a nine-to-five

who stopped playing tag,

tubing down lazy river of hops,

trading au revoirs

against the all-American

white picket fence.

Vinyl roars

through

Swiss pearwood,

the maloik wrist.

We are just fucking up.

But, my grandmother,

on the few holidays I see her,

still plays solitaire.