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July 13, 2011
Jul. 14th, 2011 01:58 amI remember thirteen.
At thirteen I started to ride the subway alone. Thirteen was when I put away my Matchbox cars and picked up Rolling Stone. It was after-school peanut butter cups and cream soda from the deli on Bond Street. At thirteen I got to try a little of dad's beer, and at thirteen I swore I'd never drink that godawful stuff. Thirteen was tremulous fear and quaking desire. Thirteen was when childhood faded into the mist, and the future beckoned slyly from the car.
I remember thirteen well, but now I see it for what it really is:
Thirteen is the time of angels.
Happy birthday, my mad, bad, sad, brilliant beautiful man.
At thirteen I started to ride the subway alone. Thirteen was when I put away my Matchbox cars and picked up Rolling Stone. It was after-school peanut butter cups and cream soda from the deli on Bond Street. At thirteen I got to try a little of dad's beer, and at thirteen I swore I'd never drink that godawful stuff. Thirteen was tremulous fear and quaking desire. Thirteen was when childhood faded into the mist, and the future beckoned slyly from the car.
I remember thirteen well, but now I see it for what it really is:
Thirteen is the time of angels.
Happy birthday, my mad, bad, sad, brilliant beautiful man.
