I’m in a poetical mood lately, dunno why.

And you all get to suffer through it. My thanks for everybody who liked the Jabberwocky parody.

Moe

On the escalators,
wearing suits of our fathers,
dresses of our mothers,
straight-backed, dignified,
while never admitting
that the cuffs of our pants
spill over flopping shoes
or that our gloves and pearls
drag the floor behind us.

We are grown-ups, yes, yes.
We have degrees, jobs, homes,
a shared car or a bed
– though we wake up at night
and look over with awe –
We smirk and insist that
this is no game we play.
We are not children, still,
keeping a child’s-eye view.

And yet, I looked downwards
to see that my pants’ cuffs
needed no folding up;
they had shrunk to fit, or
I grew an inch. Or foot.
My suit doesn’t engulf
the way it used to do,
and, worse of all, my tie
is a tie now, not noose.

I wasn’t done!, I shout –
Well, I don’t: public place
and all, you understand –
I whisper it instead
as men-as-boys-as-men
stream past me to their games.
I wasn’t done; I wanted…
something, I’m not sure what.
Magic. Grace. Spider-sense.

But when I grumble on
And mutter about how
unfair growing up is,
My grimace at mirrors
reflects my father’s face.
He matches look for look.
He is a handsome sort,
I’ll say that about him;
It might not be so bad.

But I will not give up
my Saturday cartoons.
Deal with it, adulthood.