That old song is playing on the radio –
the one about stealing words with kisses –
and I remember the first time I heard it:
sitting cross-legged on the lounge-room floor,
leafing through my parents' record collection
(already artefacts from an ancient era,
or so they seemed to me then)
and trying to rebel, but not through Punk.
I had freedom then, though I didn't know it –
freedom to be "me" (whoever "me" was).
But adulthood knocks on the door
of adolescence, dissembling,
like the wolf with the red roses.