How did you negotiate
strange new avenues
forbidden for use
by those trusted to live
an incorruptible youth?
Did dim beacons blink
codes behind twisted trees,
thick shrubbery?
Did aged-faced uncles
whisper invitations
through speak-easy doors,
painted green to camouflage,
blend in,
make it seem so?
Were these the saints,
who, listening to your discourse,
set you on a course,
by which you groped,
instinctual, by sun and stars,
toward unexplored worlds -
love, lust, and hope?
Or maybe you just knew
as you chuckled away convention
ensconced in Manhattan shadows
knowing life is a poem
of one's creation
neither completely dark
nor obscenely light.
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