Too many punks
But only in the aesthetically pleasing sense
Bought their shirts at the 5 & Dime
Along with safety pins
& commercially foraged tattoos
(Can we discuss how punk’s not supposed to be safe?)
Where’s the independence?
Where’s the penchant to damn the man?
Find your sovereign spirit
For no one’s really punk
Until everyone thinks they’re uncool
Securely sheltered in your castle
He makes sure you’re secluded
Always firmly safe from all harm
Obviously he’s benignly deluded
The loneliness still quietly invades
The walls upward of 10 feet high
Locks, bolts & your skeleton keys
Helpless against memories of a guy
Your suburban paradise glitters
But you’d rather be alive instead
Perfection laid at your feet, but
The punk of your youth isn’t dead
Red lipstick & a tight ponytail
The pretty piano player; a punk rockette
The domestic goddess with a need to be clean
Living on the edge of the cosmopolitain set
Hoarding her guilty pleasures fiercely
The moral ambiguity is a stubborn crutch
Ignoring nature’s perfectly placed laws
But she’ll only accept the light’s soft touch
Wearing an evening gown at her elegant leisure
Within her mind, no better way to take a selfie
She’s blunt with her standards & expectations
But lucky for us all, my poems are gluten free
Image by Kelsey Vere from Pixabay
Captain Q 