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Letting my fingers slide over moon-milk,
Facing down danger
In my mantle of youthful enthusiasm
That I recite from memory
In my middle age,
I remember when I put myself out there.

There were long wet days full of rain,
Huddled beneath the overpass
Sharing false warmth
From a plain brown bag.
Passing the roach until our fingers cooked,
Tasting true warmth on her lips.

There were late nights glistening
Dodging the red and blues
As they cruised,
Flicking authority the bird,
Risking it all for her love
Risking my good name for us.

Meeting so many sets of parents,
Staying warm and soft-edged
In order not to scare them,
Then revealing the baddest of boys
To tickle her fancy
And her soft curves.

There were times I nearly wet myself,
Cliff diving, bumper skiing, fist fighting,
Daring to be who I foolishly believed
I was supposed to be,
In order to touch her
Where it was dangerous to touch.