Savages

They run my neighborhood. Constant, breaking only for food. Movement unending, shifty eyes. Dirty plans, planning lies. Languidly, they go walking. Loud. Irreverently talking. On the weekends, they multiply. They gather. Parties abound. Their neighbors don't matter. I try to enjoy my tea in peace, while odd jobs they fleece. Rolling up and down the street on their shiny, two wheeled beast. No apparent law abounds as they casually make their rounds. They are a worry, to watch, warily. Concerned elderly, the youth merry. No care or thought given fairly. Maybe I'm getting old. But, I was never that bold. Giving hard looks in sleeveless shirt. Pants torn, face smudged with dirt. One carries a stick, waves it often. Tries to introduce animals to a coffin. Through this I've learned a lesson. I'll not give into the obsession. Society calls for me to have a kid. The hell I'd be in if I did. I'll watch, instead, their passages. And stay far away from the ravages of miniature, pre-teen savages. -Angel Fatale-