My son
is a whip curve
line with all bite
and no bend.
His sign
is tall and lanky
with a harsh
outline,
and orange hazard
warning.
I never see the electricity
until it crackles
from his mouth.
Teenage years
are traffic stop lights
that blink
between moods
and I am caught on a long red.
The manual
edited with pencil marks
and scream match
door slams,
then handed to the next one
in the line of parenting.
The rules
every changing in his face
but the same
as my high school pictures.
Poetic Trials 