There is a sliver of youth I’d like to get back, it’s small and it’s silver and sharp. I’d hang it on a chain wrapped loose around my neck where it would cut like paper. This is for the skinny boys on skateboards in patched-up pants and duct tape shoes, for closets filled with stolen books, five dollar punk shows and KFC.
We always lived back then convinced we weren’t alive, strapped to our longing and infallibility. Our voices howled from passenger windows. Our music pulsed the walls. Our rage beat on and on in poetry, paint, clay and mud.
Today, I wash floors, dust shelves, arrange and rearrange–the articulate joke drawn from skeins of blur and motion. Myself, once turning a wide open turbine, has funneled into the eye contented.
But for that sliver.
I remember skateboarders on lunch rolling click, click, click along the sidewalk. My junior year crush had a sharp, square jaw and short, skate boy hair. He’d wait outside my 7th hour History class and walk me down the hall. Very little became of us, but the flirt was divine.