These streets;
the ink smudge where the motion repeats
dry, cracked heels, dirty feet
Point A to Point B
and somewhere in between:
thoughtless impulse.

I spit a cigarette
lit the wrong way in the dark
a fucking waste
the taste never forgotten.

There’s six in this group
I flat-out refuse
to get in the boot.

I’m a good girl
doing the bad, coming of age, acting out
vulgar and know-it-all
unladylike and loud.

I guess (unknowingly)
all part of the “figuring it out”
through trial and mistake
and the choices I make
as part of the shaping
taking corners without breaking –
I squeal in delight.