Feeling Like Holden Caulfield

hat

The day began
with trash-talking radio DJs,
bleeping garbage trucks in reverse,
mouthing societal decay.
Lousy perverts, I say.
I feel like Holden Caulfield today.

At a park, spinning my little girl on the merry-go-round,
hoping she doesn’t read fuck you scratched into
lead paint or hear the
clueless rebels reeking of
pubescent insecurities.
Feedin’ hormones, yo.
Show ‘em how much you don’t care, bro.
Brawny bastards.
I feel like Holden Caulfield today.

Overhearing posturing mothers
out parenting, out sourcing, out numbing their minds.
Bunch of phonies if you ask me:
gluten free, unprocessed mashed up peas.
If they ask me a question, I’m gonna lie through my teeth.
Spin one that drops ‘em to their knees.
I feel like Holden Caulfield today.

Go fetch my hat, sir.
So I stand out. So I blend into rye.
Feeling the catch before the fall is
worth another round on the carousal.

Full admission is madness, so
I’ll wear my hunting hat in private.
Navigate the fields in my green dress
to the chimes of hangers
blowing in an empty closet at the Edmont Hotel,
wondering about the seasonal
fate of ducks in Central Park.

I don’t even know what I’m saying.
I’m not kidding. I just know
I feel like Holden Caulfield today.

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