generally reading any of my old poetry makes me want to barf, but this one's not too bad:

youth wasted on children

I think about standing at washington square
in new york watching a tweed-clad boy
with a super 8 camera film pigeons and
feeling more envious than I ever had

and I wonder if I want a bonfire by the lake
or an old house filled with wood for my
children to slide down banisters and
smear peanut butter on the oriental rugs

and I hope that it’s not always necessary
to leave one life behind for another, and if
I can’t at least put off growing up long enough
to get away with a few more fits of hysteria

and I grow smug looking back on the
teenaged me that had so much fun affecting
adulthood with jim beam and cigarettes
and think man, if you only knew

if you only knew

© 2007 jeremy ball. all rights reserved.