Those are recyclables,
She said half-jokingly. But not.
You can come home drunk if you wish,
like your forefathers and fathers before to the
nth degree.
But for god sakes, son
Recycle your empties
A sign, posted carefully
At the ledge of a cliff.
Beware! As though we weren't
Aware, already of the imminent danger
Of crossing, unawares, into a deep void
Small solace to the mother of tomorrow; who,
in raising a genius, will stoop to bombardment
of Knowledge; properly rejected, at the age of sixteen
in favour of a more Gritty apprenticeship.
If the war of tomorrow could talk, it'd say;
"Listen. I know you're all focused on me, but...
I am the symptom of a festering wound, never lanced
Always explained away, no one's fault
Choice is gone, and with it ambition
A narrow comfortable life, well supported
Who will fight, the war of tomorrow
The boy with anger, and rage with no release
In the woods. For they are verboten,
Crawling with germs, and lice, and unseen
Threats.
Slap a band-aid on me, and if I still bleed
Slap a couple more. and if that doesn't work,
Eight more should do the trick. No?