Rebelling Against My Parents.

Rebelling Against My Parents

My father used to work at a radio station before

He became an author.

Standing six foot two at two hundred pounds,

He was my mother’s only lover-long, black hair

And a black bomber jacket, he rode around in a Harley,

Shouting slurs to dumb blondes and country waitresses,

Wishing they would ride on the back of his Harley

With him.

He thought there was something going on between

Every woman he met-online or in person, from the grocery

Store to the library, which I forced him to take me to every

Sunday, just so I could get my hands on a copy of poetry

Magazines that I wanted to submit to as an adult.

I wrote poetry as a child but they weren’t nearly quite good

Enough as the best of the best as I called them-Sylvia Plath;

Phillip Levine; Maxine Kumin, whatever I could get my hands on,

Even the underground poets of the dark web, as my mother referred

To it, since, as a teenager, I wasn’t supposed to talk to people

Online, but I did it anyway, deep in the night when the

Darkness all but thrums in my head, getting me drunk on the

Excitement of getting caught, but not getting drunk from

Alcohol, since I wasn’t supposed to drink any at

That age.

I still don’t drink, and maybe that was one thing that my

Parents taught me, how to be rebellious without getting

Yourself into too much trouble.