We were wild summer girls
and didn’t know it.
Our mothers knew, and tried
to trap us
keep it from us
save us from ourselves.
It was ten years before I learned how wild I was.
But feral boys
began to teach you
when fall came.
On the Beach
I drove the beach at Daytona one Spring.
It was like a carousel,
Sue and I riding the rearing Mustang
around the long circuit:
Atlantic on the left hand, turn,
Atlantic to the right.
Coming back was drier, and chancier.
A Thunderbird drifted into the soft sand. Boys.
We avoided that pitfall,
but recognized the danger of desire.