They only know her as Mom,
Keeper of the healthy snacks,
Organizer of impossible schedules,
The queen of comfort
In her yoga pants and cross-trainers.
They would never recognize her
In the midst of her miscreant days,
Black leather mini skirt,
Hair teased to the heavens,
With a weakness for musicians and motorcycles.
They’ve never seen the butterfly
Forever fluttering on her right hip,
And they would never guess
That the haphazard tune she hums
While driving the Wednesday carpool
Is vintage punk rock.
~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to use the word “miscreant.” I’ve included a video for the song that helped to spark this poem.