Culture Wars

You try to shoulder your way in,
The grown-ups’ conversation, how
They’re saying things that seem to matter,
No one looking down to where you’re standing,
With your hands on hips and hoping that
Your furrowed brow will let you get a word in edgewise.
All you want to say is “Hey! I’m here.” You know
They’ll only notice if you say, “Oh yes, his
Hamlet: dark and rich with madness,” or
“That pas de deux just took my breath away.” But
you are ten and you will never be a culture hound—
a poet maybe, but you’ll never take much pleasure
dressing up and sitting primly in dark theaters,
knowingly conducting with your finger.
You sneak outside and ride your bike into the sunset.