The Rogue

You lean across the railing

like your body was made

to fall against things,

the sort of sly smile

on your lips I could wipe

off with my fingers

and smear all over town.

You’re the rogue, you know,

that’s what they call you –

the boy with his hands in

his pockets and his feet

on the ceiling, a forsaker

of normalcy, of ‘the way

we do things’,

and we all look to you

to keep us spinning.

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14 thoughts on “The Rogue

  1. Oooooh, I like this one, Natalie. The image of wiping off his smile and smearing it all over town — very big. Trouble is, most people don’t like to spin… Oh, well, most people think they don’t like poetry either.

    1. Thanks Marya 🙂 I used to be one of those people, unfortunately. Poetry was beneath me (of course, until I realized that it is profoundly and unwaveringly above me).

Thoughts? I love those.

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