No longer young, no longer small,
Eighteen-year-olds can do it all!
Can fight in wars, can sneak a drink,
Can tell us how and why they think,
Can date online, can post a rant:
They can! Except for when they can’t.
No longer bound by dull commands,
They sail to fight in foreign lands,
Avenging their besmirch-ed names,
If only on a video game.
The bravest warriors on the screen
Have yet to keep their privy clean.
No longer ward, told where he goes,
He brings no hanky for his nose,
And driving in a sleek machine,
Neglects to keep the windshield clean.
Proud servant to a loan, at last,
He calls his mom for cash for gas.
And while he learns to share a space,
He bristles, thinks it a disgrace,
Receiving Mum. As if his fate
Had been to auto-generate,
Spontaneously crawling from
That crust of dust that coats his dorm.
I do not judge. I do not spy
And spite him, with a mocking eye.
I know my youth was just as wild,
Like that of every new un-child,
But a smidge of help won’t burst his spleen!
He’ll thank me, when he turns nineteen.
Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew