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To Nora Peevy's previous piece

Mama's Boy

"No pictures of naked ladies
for my son," he said.
The rugged biker 
with the white Walt Whitman beard
slouched on the pine green leather couch,
a blue-jean anachronism
amongst the pale Goth ghosts.
Clad in skin-tight black vinyl minis,
sleek black leather pants, 
black lace evening gloves,
and chunky knee-high boots
they floated past him with
their elaborate Vampira look,
their eyes lined in thick black curly-cues,
and their bodies adorned with intricate tattoos
of angel wings,
demons,
and rose-entwined ankhs.
"I can't stand needles," he said.
"So when I go to the Sturgess Rally
I draw my tattoos on my arm.
Then I can wash them off."
And before he meandered off with his beer in hand
onto the thick smoke-filled dance floor he added,
"But if I were to get one it would say 'mom.'
I'd tattoo one 'm' on each cheek
and when I stood on my head
it would say 'wow.'"

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