A Keen Penny

It was getting to winter.
All autumn, the boy had stared
At the ceiling every night,

Thinking about what it meant
That, since his birthday, he was
Truly a teenager now.

It was a very big deal
To become a teenager,
At least in that time and place,

That particular culture,
Whatever you’d call it now.
It felt like a transition

Of momentous importance,
Not so much an attainment
As becoming another

Species, order of being,
A class apart. Teenager.
Something in dark December,

However, was calming him.
He was okay with it now,
He thought to himself, while rain

Bent the black branches outside
His window and he listened
To his pocket radio

Turned way down, discreetly low
To not disturb his mother
In the other room. Mono

Pop songs filtered through static,
And he couldn’t catch the words,
Not clearly, left to wonder

Who really keen Penny was
And why anyone would put
A keen Penny in the jets.