Rites of Passage
Oct 28 2008


I am still waiting to come of age.

I learned to drive
a big Buick land yacht
4-door hard-top
parallel parking with my white-knuckle dad —
teeth clenched,
his brake-foot
mashed against the firewall.
Road test
set for the day I turned 16.

And soon after that, the age of majority —
learning to drink,
old enough to vote
go off to war.
Then marriage house and kids
in no particular order.

So a middle-aged man
in his prime, looking back
wonders just when it happened
or if.
Because I still feel unready, unsure.
Too immature to be this grizzled, this grey,
for cops to call me “Sir”,
to be older
than Prime Ministers.

My coming-of-age story
needs a ruthless edit
a heart-warming ending,
my life, sent-off to re-write —
less bad first novel
more “Catcher in the Rye”.

Unless they were all impostors,
those men I remember
in suits and ties,
who seemed to know exactly how the world works
— mixing drinks,
fixing cars,
kissing faithful wives goodnight.