The phase is turning grey,
I’m afraid....
Unlike the pink hair
of the woman at the store,
about mid forties, like me.

Only half is pink actually,
the other half shaved smooth.
Earlobes dangle, stretched
like basketball hoops.

Her teenage son tags along,
appearing quite normal.
His rebellious phase
will include heavy doses of church
and young republicans meetings,
screaming “Libtard!” at his mom.

As for me, I still maintain
my long mane,
brown with grey strays now,
hippie on the outside,
misanthrope within,
my outrage at life’s injustice
and people’s greed
still intact, though I lack
a revolutionary spirit
and I despise crowds
so marching in the street
is out, though I applaud
those who do.

I squat here and there,
usually online,
but occasionally
at family gatherings,
leaving steaming piles
of opinion and rage
for white shirted men
in shiny shoes to step in.

At the grassy park
where I sit scribbling,
dogs on leashes
are leaving piles of their own.
The owners walk them
clockwise on a paved loop,
sticking mostly to the path.

I shed sandals,
stroll barefoot in the dewy grass,
my eyes scanning
for squishy land mines,
walking counterclockwise,
a true badass.