A poem.

you find yourself, reader,
in wicked spirit
being led by my dangled carrot into a modern family home
that to the modern teen, may as well be a modern garrote –
her room, her bed, her throne –
Mom thinks there must be something going on
cause the smell from the dining room downstairs
reeks like a bong:
“but how do you know that, Miss Antoinette? are you sure?
“it’s because of the parties to which i’ve been lured.
i haven’t actually smoked any. don’t be so perturbed –
“well how would you know it was weed
unless you were standing so close to them you could see?
then wouldn’t it be in the air that you breathe?
hmmm?
do you need me to get you a cup
into which you can pee?
“i didn’t have any, OK? JEEZ.
Continue reading

