It tastes like purple
dripping of sugar and avoidance
in a circle
of loitering semi-pubescents.
Wooden sticks
precariously cling to
misshapened ice nuggets
in varying stages of licked, bitten and
melted.

School was out.

Hormones were in.

From the other hand
Becky sipped the ****** of
Strawberry Hill.
She knew things
she shouldn't know.
I wanted to know them too.
Looking over kitschy glasses
her gaze announced
(much to a young boy's excitement and fear)
she was bound
to kiss me.

At the awkward crossroad of
popsicle innocence and cheap wine
I stood clutching
my little piece of lumber
fighting sticky fingers
and the urge
to drink my first liquor
from her lips.

There is no such thing as
12 year old mojo.
The boy's experience
was only under-dated
by the alcohol in the pretty container.
She didn't care
about mojo or
decorum or
crowds.
She cared about RIGHT NOW.

She was an evangelist for the cause,
asking forgiveness
instead of permission
for her lust
...and I was being converted.

Hitchless
she walk into the face
of a clueless child,
tilted her head
and baptized his mouth
in ***** and braggadocio.

It didn't taste like purple anymore.

It tasted like America pie and graduation.

Her unseen signature
authenticates my diploma.
I am still a patriot.
And a warm piece still reminds me
of Strawberry Hill.