That fluffy ruffled skirt
swaying with every step
safety-pinned beyond recognition,
she signifies as a catholic girl gone bad
but in fishnets and leather,
Marten’s below
Pistols above.

She is the perfect picture
of punk post-pubescence
and effective affected rebellion.
I am in love

but she would loathe
a straight-laced geezer like me.

If only I could seem
as she does.
If only I could show
that I, too,

am revolting.

If only I were forty years younger
or she forty percent drunker
or the world forty percent more fictional.
Forty percent would do it, though,
of that I’m certain.

Maybe forty eight.