' I'm wearing black', she said.
'From blouse to underwear',
it was the first time that she had
asserted her autonomy
at home. She now was just fifteen.
Her mother tried to give the
girl some guidance.
She didn't like this early fascination.
A barely budding tiny little bosom,
in certain circles would be a sensation.
Her father took one look
at his own girl.
And smiled, benignly,
then -with grin - opined:
'Have fun my dear,
give it a real whirl!
You're black, at night
that makes you hard to find'.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/growing-up-9/
