The Phase

Sixteen years, now done,
with black eyeliner, bloodred lips
and black velvet garments.

The entire collections of
Poe, Baudelaire, Rice, and Plath,
strewn on the floor next to
The Cure, Depeche Mode,
Skinny Puppy, Sisters of Mercy,
and Dead Can Dance.

I haunted the only two clubs
as a sanctuary to this clique.
I huffed at Sally Jesse Raphael
and the makeover club.
I yelled at CNN when it was
so damned easy to blame
that horrible tragedy
on our clothes and music.

Sixteen years, a son,
marriage, and a mortgage later -
you'd never know it, now.

Still, on the floor,
Plath, Baudelaire, Cure,
and in my closet,
a predominance of black,
though notably tame,
offer a few clues
that I never really did
grow out of that "phase".