A vulgar April moon leers down as
They stand necking carelessly in
The darkened, deserted schoolyard;
Enticing to the universal voyeur
And exposed to those so inclined.
Tongues wriggle greedily in and out
Of each other's desperate throats as
The zipper capitulates and the hand
Hurries down, seeking forbidden moisture.
Daddy's sweet little angel and
Mamma's darling boy grow up too soon.
Fool! He cannot furnish your security;
Has nothing to offer you but hormones
And perhaps a beating when he's drunk.
Fool! She cannot deliver you from
A future deficient of disposable income,
Bleak assembly lines and manual labor;
Or when those fail you, larceny.
What sort of life gives birth to
The expression of detached hatred
In eyes as young as these?
- Robert Clarke