When Police’s Message in a Bottle
comes on the radio, I return
to every high school dance.
I am lost in a crowd of gawky limbs,
and uncoordinated stomps
as we try to communicate
with every jerky movement.
The beauty of teenage girls
in strobing, blinking lights
and crepe paper dresses,
and ferocity of teenage boys
in outside groups
and dark corner jackets.
When they collect themselves up
behind the school and hold out there hands,
they pour out puberty and rebellion
from their back pocket flasks
and become punch drunk in poor choices.
They twist up their names, smeared lips
and foggy windows into the empty liquor bottles
then try to put them back into their parent’s cabinets.
They try to find their youth by morning
between hangovers and regret.
Poetic Trials 