At the subway station, crowded and loud,
I stood with my toddler, feeling quite proud.
But then came a question, clear and blunt,
“When will your **** talk again?” - what a stunt!

Embarrassment flooded, my face turned bright red,
As people around us chuckled and said
Nothing aloud, but their stares spoke for them,
While I tried to hush him, the chatty 'lil man.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered, dismayed,
But he pressed on, “In the bathroom!” he played.
How I wished the ground would just swallow me whole,
As passengers giggled, beyond my control.

The subway ride - an epoch of shame,
Judging eyes upon me, I was to blame.
They probably thought I was gassy and crude,
I pondered which orphanage might take little dude.

As we stepped off the train, the doors shut tight,
And suddenly, it hit me - I saw the light!
At a gas stop, during a mommy squat,
My phone in my pocket had caused quite a plot.

Google Maps had spoken, loud and clear,
“Please turn around,” for us to hear.
But now it’s too late to explain this tale,
Forever they’ll think I couldn’t curtail.

My flatulence in public, or so they thought,
When really, it was just directions I sought.
A lesson learned in the most awkward way:
Keep your phone on silent, or be the **** of play!

Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place,
A punctuation mark, a timeless friend.
They say it’s AI’s sharp, mechanical trace,
But writers embrace it right up to the end.

It breaks up a thought—like a secret shared,
Not just the lines of a robot’s pen.
A pause that’s alive—bravely dared,
With rhythm and wit—again and again.

I love the dash—well, I used to!
Now, I don’t—I’m not amused
By people—so quickly "AI use" flew—
And I’m pretty tired of being accused.

Where do you think AI got it from?
It’s trained on human writing, mate!
Was used before—and will be used some,
So stop with all the pointless hate!

Next time you spot this dancing dash,
Remember, hands once left this trace.
It’s human and art—no cold AI clash;
Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place.

I don’t know the yesterday me.
She walked paths of bubble gum dreams
wearing skirts too short for crosses to bear.

I still have long hair, but gray has invaded
golden blond, and I look more hag than innocent.

Oh, my younger me tries to break the
shadow door, but the creaking bone chain
that holds the key doesn’t like to rattle history.

I live in the moment…Doesn’t that sound enlightened?
It’s not. I’m practical because my tomorrows are shrinking.

The yesterday me thought she knew everything.
Today I’m always on a hunt for my phone,
because it holds lists of what I’m sure to forget.

Poe wrote another poem, dark and quite long,
’Bout a dude who was moping, quite sad,
His girlfriend Lenore had clearly gone wrong,
Leaving him utterly mad.

One night, as he’s reading, half asleep,
A tapping he hears at his door,
He opens it up, into darkness so deep,
“Lenore?” he whispers, unsure.

But instead of his babe, all radiant and fair,
A raven flies in, you see,
Perches above him, with nary a care,
And says, “Nevermore,” chillingly.

The dude starts to chat with this ominous bird,
Asking questions, morose and absurd,
If he’ll see Lenore, or if he’s been heard,
But the raven can just say one word.

He gets quite upset, calls the raven a demon,
Says it’s tormenting him, no less,
But the bird doesn’t budge, just keeps on gleaning,
“Nevermore,” causing much distress.

The poem concludes, with the dude in despair,
The raven still perched, dark and grim,
A symbol of grief, that he just has to bear,
All thanks to that feathery whim.

In short, it’s a tale of loss and of woe,
A bird with a limited vocab,
Driving a grieving man crazy, you know,
Leaving his sanity totally scabbed.

Poe wrote a poem - quite tragic and sad,
About a girl named Annabel Lee,
Their love was so pure, it made angels mad,
In a kingdom somewhere by the sea.

They were just kids, but their love was so strong,
The heavens got jealous, you see,
They sent a cold wind, and things went all wrong,
And some illness hit Annabel Lee.

She died pretty quickly, was put in a tomb,
But her guy wasn't ready to quit,
He'd lie by her grave in the darkness and gloom,
(Kinda creepy, I must admit.)

He blamed it on angels, those heavenly jerks,
For taking his bride-to-be,
But that's just how a disease sadly works
Even in that kingdom by the sea.

His love never died, unlike Annabel Lee,
He dreamed of her night and day,
His dedication was admirable, you see,
But not in a healthy way.

So, what did we learn from this tragic tale
Besides that love grows more and more?
That Poe had a knack for the morbid and frail,
And making gothic folklore.

In short: It's a story of love and of loss,
With a dash of celestial spite,
Where Poe shows that death is no match for true love,
Even if that love's not quite right.

It's starting sluggish - slippery,
The aging, as it has to be.
You're twenty-nine, feeling sturdy,
But then - OH NO - you're turning thirty.

This magic kingdom is no fun,
'The great beyond' has just begun,
Your living room gets the greening,
And you a letter - time for screening.

You have a favorite grocery store,
And you just don't care anymore
'Bout looking **** - lingerie?
A onesie! Fluffy as can be.

And then it starts - your body ages,
That goes quickly, not in stages.
You fall asleep wrong on your couch,
The next morning - biggest OUCH!

You can't move -  your head, your neck,
Your hips, your arms, and oh, your back.
You aged a decade in ten hours
And nothing helps, not even showers.

Now you pathetically crawl
To get some paracetamol.
The bathroom seems so very far,
So you just lie there as you are.

In deepest pain, ashamed, destroyed,
Broken, ******, beyond annoyed.
A few days later, you're still there
With a story you can share

With other people - old as you.
Most likely, you have just these two
Friends, you know, you don't need more!
The social you? That was before!

You spend your Sundays in your garden,
Not saying 'sorry', saying 'pardon',
You watch a movie, or you read,
With the glasses you now need.

You have a favorite ***, and pan,
and spatula, and burner, man!
The youth is driving you insane,
And you're continually in pain.

Your feet grow, your bladder shrinks,
At least that's what your body thinks.
You need to *** - constantly!
Even at night, so you flee

Your bed, that you are in by nine,
Right after a glass of wine.
Fatigue is your worst opponent,
Sometimes you just need a moment

For a nap, right after brunch,
Or directly after lunch,
Yet still you're tired - all the time,
Just be careful with your spine...

Yes, thirty is horrible, yet you're alive,
And maybe you manage to survive,
Eat healthy, stay safe, maybe get sporty!
But take it slow - you're pushing forty.

(a throwback poem from High school)

I'm the most popular girl in my homeroom.
Of course, that's my own bedroom -
cause we're on COVID lockdown, zoom.

My bedroom is the math class, which doubles as the gym,
it triples as the theater - you should see the shows I'm in.

They're only in my mirror, so my cats get free admission.
My sudden popularity's due, to a matter of attrition.

If I play my cards right, I can probably be prom queen
I'll hold the ceremony in the garden, so the travesty goes unseen.

It’s a little complicated - what isn’t? But my plans have changed (again).
Under some pressure - but not really - I was able to switch schools.
From Johns Hopkins university to the Université Paris Cité.
No doubt, the Hopkins acceptance helped.
It’s like when you have a boyfriend - how the other boys suddenly find you more attractive?

There was a comment someone made here, SbySW, I think - he said,
“No more early jogs in Baltimore,” (as in danger-city) and that was a tumbler for me - I started checking and, yeah, Baltimore is very.. Baltimore-ish. Then my little mind started grinding.

‘If I’m already switching schools and since Peter (my bf) is still ‘stuck’ in Geneva.. Isn’t Paris closer?
TRIGGER WARNING  
So, here’s where the 'nepo baby' magic happens.
I called my Grandmère. ring.ring
“Umm, I’m thinking the Université Paris Cité might be better than Baltimore.. Is that CrAzY?”
After a moment's silence, Grandmère said,
“Can you forward me your Hopkins acceptance letter?”

And thirty minutes later (9pm Paris time, mind you), I got a call from Université Paris Cité admissions. I’m in. The program starts September 1st.
Then François, one of my Grandmère’s corporate minions called and said:
"Johns Hopkins appreciated the quick notice.
The movers will be there, for you and Charles @ 9am tomorrow morning.
Your flight (to Paris) leaves @ 9:22pm tomorrow night..
Your TSA PreChecks, and Global Entry passes are complete.
I mailed you your flight passes and "Imagine'R" (unlimited Paris travel) cards. A car will be waiting when you arrive.”
François doesn't mess around.

I looked at my watch, it was 2:45 in the afternoon.
****, I need to tell Charles we're moving to Paris tomorrow.

Yes, I exist in a charmed circle - if you discount the contentiousness of the choice - my Mom’s now mad at me and my sister’s not too happy 
- I’m totes charmed.
Of course, the Hopkins acceptance (and the full-ride scholarship I declined) will now pass on to another lucky student.

Sometimes what you want
is lurking in the shadows
just out of reach - do you dare disclose it -
risk exposing it, when some might oppose it?

The bible says “Ask and you shall receive.”
In real life, that may require more than belief,
if your secret wishes, you are to achieve.
.
.
Songs for this:
Give Paris One More Chance by Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers
The Paris Match (feat. Tracey Thorn) by The Style Council
Nostalgie Du Voyage by Tape Five

Over sticks, and stones...
no broken bones ...
only thick bands ringing
neck, and throat.

I floated onward, anyway:
my fainted,
fading body, splayed;
swathed, and rolled,
in a jacket shroud,

as gently, as...a paper wave.
Yet, onward, pulled,
on grasses, loud,

As softly, as
...a blackened cloud.