You, wild child that flung your arms wide and high,
reckless, and taunted grown men and girls alike.
They don’t make them like you anymore.
If you could be swept up in that whirlwind again,
propelled, with all your affectations
down Avenues headlong into madness,
thinking one lover an angel, the next
a new Rimbaud, would you trade sanity
for the tempest twice?
Now the winds are mild.
You’re a fool, confused and querulous,
gathering flotsam on the storm-strewn beach.