Curfew

October 22, 2009

Curfew

Stealthily crawling toward the stairwell,
sweaty palms propel me forward as they’re pressed
against the polar marble path,
making every possible effort
to avoid the wrath of the sleeping mother,
along the basement carpet, I am creeping.

Tugging at the stubborn sliding door,
and slipping out into the still darkness,
the crisp night air calling for the commencement
of yet another escapade.

The sound of crushed gravel
beneath stilettos,
stained from last winter’s salt laced sidewalks,
echoing softly as I tread toward the SUV.

Silently, clouds of smoke
pour out of open windows
and up toward the protruding limbs of tall oaks,
as the summer wind grieves its own passing.

The flicker of lighters and smoldering cigarettes
allow for the outline of adolescents
to be recovered
from the depths of the shadows.

All squeezed into the rear seat,
Shotgun, my eyes meet the end
of the unpaved road,
but only long enough to receive
another load of teens armed
with eyeliner and faded jeans.

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