Bad Boys 

I always went for the bad boys,
the ones with wild curly hair,
torn jeans, whose shoes hit
the road on a whim, whose kisses
were hard, their loving hot.
The kind of guy you didn't
bring home to meet mother.

The dull men, ties round
their necks, twenty-year plan
in their briefcase, bored me.
I imagined chaste kisses,
paired with the missionary stance,
no sound escaping pursed lips.

I loved riding the wind
to my next adventure, ignoring
the fact that the wind
might be capricious, a traitor,
and that one day there would be
no bad boy, hard in his jeans,
waiting when the dastardly
funnel at last dropped me.



Pris Campbell
(c)2012

Published The Rusty Truck  Summer 2012


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