At sixteen,

I thought I was grown.
I did many things to prove it,
theater cashier, counting out
quarters, nickels, dimes.
The concession called me,
I poured cokes, popped popcorn,
stuck a box of junior mints
in my pocket. For later.
Then it was the restaurant tours,
Frisch’s, Kingfish, Lamplighter,
learning to flip burgers, fry eggs,
when all I ever wanted was a baby
and a family.
I waited until I was seventeen
to leave home,
wearied by the drip
drip of criticism and reproof,
ready to take up the mantle
of adulthood,
not knowing the cost.
The nights at the bars
followed by hangovers,
followed by some guy
in a yellow Corvette
convertible.
The days in the netherworld
of courtship, marriage.
The drudgery of making dinner,
washing dishes, Wiping down
surfaces spattered with grease.
I was typecast.
Soon there were babies,
be careful what you ask for.
burps and spit-up, diapers,
pacifiers, tonka trucks.
Motorcycles, makeup,
graduation gowns, coffins.
I didn’t count the cost.