Puberty 3

Like Mitski,
I am Your Best American Girl,
on the precipice of me and my wife
and our garden and our song
and the little dark age.

Forced to face our Mercurial World,
breezing through summer depression
and watching October pass me by,
the heat waves peeling the stinging veneer off
the other side of paradise.

I Don’t Even Smoke Weed,
just live in the middle of the electric feel,
striving to be sweet in
this house, full of women,
playing guitar, making breakfast.

No longer a Strawberry Blonde,
bleached-then-dark from the
winter that always comes,
the perpetual rain, not memories, making me colder,
and I don’t give a damn about the 405.