She moves lithely, smooth, and opens her mouth
wide when she speaks, unless she’s chewing gum,
but still then the slight angle of her jaw
and wetness of her lips make her even
more appealing to the thirteen-year-old
inside. She’s never tired, and I’m sure could
go all night if her parents weren’t so strict.
Age is just a number, like twenty-five
to life, or seventeen candles, or four
more years until she can hang out in bars.
I remember Rugrats back before they
got growed up, on Snick Saturdays with Doug,
and Are You Afraid of the Dark?—she is—
wanting my own big orange couch; and I
remember thinking Winona Ryder
was so old in Great Balls of Fire, not
understanding what the big deal was;
and I remember the 80’s: does she?
Don’t answer that. There’s nothing wrong with a
little range. What will it matter in ten
years, after marriage? You’ll be better off,
beating life on both ends of the spectrum:
still getting those girls you weren’t finished with
in high school; dying twelve years before your
wife; thinking no one will ever leave you.