Late Bloomer

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Sneaking out, up to no good,

A tryst with a boy in his car,

I rode my bike a mile

To the end of our country lane.

My scruples and fear kept me pure.

Back at the house, my Dad

Dangling binoculars at his side.

What were you doing? Nothing.

He shook his head, grimaced,

Turned and walked to the barn.

I was sixteen, trembling, caught,

Full of guilt, shame. Ugly memories,

Even imagined, grow and lock in place.

Meanwhile, my sister, thirteen, crawled

Out her bedroom window near’ every night,

Walked to town, smoked, drank beer,

Drove country roads with boy-friends,

Hefted back through her window

As the sun rose. She laughs at me.

Her memories don’t waken her.

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