Wednesday, January 15, 2014
We pass a joint to one another under the cover
of hoodies & hairnets, our bodies perched on
Popeye’s porch who’s on the corner cracking jokes,
clinking bottles w/other boys in baggy black clothes
—troublemakers in the eyes of those who don’t know
any better. You hit it hard & hold your breath—a sea
diver sinking into the dark crevices of a cave
& you hand me the wet end of a torch we hope
never extinguishes, the way our friendship will
years from now. In that passing, we hear a whistle
of metal & flame, a buzz in front of our faces. It takes
a moment for the coughing to kick in & the click
of crosshairs locking into place from across the tracks
where figures in black & beige flash their hands in fury
w/the hurried tongue of taunt & war. We duck
under the stairs, a pair of scared fifteen year olds
waiting for the silence to begin, for their fingers to tire
of firing on boys who look just like them. When the shooting
stalls, we crawl out & I run across the street, up the steps
of my own porch while you take off towards Popeye,
your body disappearing around the curve.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014