Don’t — tell me what to do

“Don’t,” he said, his voice a monotone,

“Don’t talk to you mother like that.”

“Don’t”. That mesmeric metronome.

“Don’t go too far.”

“Don’t stay out so late.”

“Don’t let the family down.”

“Don’t tempt fate.”

I hated his strictures,

My whole being chafed,

“I’ll blow my brains out if I have to listen to his lectures,”

With my friends I japed.

And then a friend died,

At fourteen, far too young,

I never visited his parents,

From whose lips, “don’t” had never sprung.

I’m forty now, so twenty six years have gone,

I still miss my dead friend,

On whom his parents fawned,

They never said “no”,

Not when he slapped his maid,

Not when he cursed his mother,

Called her a “bitch”, in front of us, unafraid.

And then his curly mop of hair became,

A paintbrush on the street,

Red, white, and dust his final palette,

His pricey sneakers, ripped right off his feet.

I thanked my lucky stars,