Juvenile Troglodyte Domesticates

I was digging a hole to virtue

in the body of a beast.

As children in a plain

Suburban neighborhood,

They entertained themselves

By digging holes sometimes,

Joking about the goal

Of digging to China,

Which they knew they couldn’t,

Although they didn’t know

Why, exactly. The dream

They did allow themselves

Was of discovery,

Treasure, even better,

Tunnels of a secret

Kingdom of cave people.

After making a mess

In someone’s yard, getting

Yelled at by their parents,

They’d slink off in a pack

To someone else’s house,

Get into the garage,

Prowl around in the gloom,

Look for the old man’s beer,

Climb the ride-on mower,

Fight over who could steer,

Play a shadowy game

Of dare—dare you to take

Off your pants, underpants,

Dance on top of the car

And shake your bare booty.

Eventually, they’d end

In someone’s dim basement

With afternoon re-runs

They all knew on TV.

This they called innocence,

At least later, at least

In nostalgic versions

Of themselves, digging

Their holes in memory

To virtue, childish beasts.