Reckless   I wanted to be reckless . . . no, I wanted that reputation — a little crazy, that bad-ass kind of cool with a jaunty disregard for rules, a look that says: touch me at your peril even though you do want to touch me, don’t you, girl — you fool. Spell my name trouble. Black leather and blue jeans, the scent of tobacco and taboo, languid, smoldering . . .                                        But I was a good kid, defeated by forethought, by a sense of consequences, by shackles of should and shouldn’t and shame, by the prod of mens sana in corpore sano. And so were you, my love . . . yet here we are. Let’s go.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont October 2010