The day you taught me how to cross a street was
the first time I remember my anxiety.
Lungs expanding, mouth shut
and seemingly everlasting.
Pulse rising, brow moist,
too young to know the innuendo.

"Look both ways," you said.
And I did.
At the time I listened to you,
your words; guidance bestowed
upon me, not only because of your
responsibility and obligation,
but because of love.

As time went on,
it was easier to disregard
your words.
I would look both ways,
and after a while I knew
you weren't behind me.

After a while, I was glad
that you weren't.
You never took my training wheels off,
because I had never rode a bike,
but I learned how to cross a street.

I would look both ways,
cross,
setting my own direction.
And when I learned to
ride a bike at twenty-two,
you still weren't behind me,
and I was drunk.

Wind in my face,
eyes closed,
light shining through
my eyelids.

With closed eyes,
you can't look both ways,
or appreciate the innuendo.