midlo class white kids
bumpin in the minivan
air streaming in the open windows
bass blasting an old punk song
on the way to a night on the town
the night when Noho shined
in the darkening sky
as we chased the end of our teenage years
in a city full of spirits.
Sushi,
a shortcut,
and we were on the streets again.
Hitting up the shops
half priced records
in the underground music store
(I bought some jazz)
or
how about a little .5Ox ice cream?
I'd only trust a words you say
as far as our laughter carried.
'Cause you see,
all the tastes and textures
of young rebellion
roll off the tongue
like the smoke of a shared clove
on the street corner.
So language was tossed with their cinders
and caution to the wind.
Swelled brow flesh
was newly punctured
for the sake of cold metal fashion.
'We heard a squeal, thought it was you.'
I said, 'Nah, it didn't hurt a bit.'
It was ours,
our time to be free
living a lifetime in one night
watching our breath
float off in the cold air
moving fast to the next great
exodus of childhood.
