waves glance the skinny road into a hidden parking lot
    where we teenagers, intent on sunnning and flirting away
            a Sunday afternoon, drive across without fear.  

we stuff too many passenger into someone’s family car.  
    drink beer.  make out on blankets.  smoke pall malls.
            swim far from shore chasing teenage pleasure

 with few limits. most of us live to be adults unscathed–
       except for broken hearts, parental reproach,
                an occasional unwanted pregnancy and early marriage.  

today I  grasp handrails to climb stairs in sensible shoes,
     avoid playing games that endanger hips or knees, 
                take prescriptions as my doctor directs.

I swim in pools with life guards.