A HOODED SWEATHSHIRT IS A SUIT OF ARMOR

A poem about being 19. Getting drunk off Keystone light in the backyard of a house on the other side of the industrial park. Learning the rules, so they say. Not sure what to make of them.


               NOT QUITE A
               HOUSE PARTY



a shotgunned beer
we were thirsty.
in the dark backyards
beneath the powerlines.
throwing rocks at the water tower
creating echoes off the houses
we were in hooded sweatshirts
like suits of armor
gathered together
along the chain link perimeter
the stereo played unwound tapes
between our small conversation
nothing important
too young to make mistakes
the body gets what the heart wants
out alone, no more nest, school’s out
shit jobs and bombed out apartments
forget about it for a little while
throw another colder one back.
sometimes a sound from the highway
comes through like an escaped wave,
The laughs of the girls
on the other side of the light
they always laugh over there
not so much over here
here, where our mouths are always dry.
and somehow, occasional like a bad joke
rises up, the lone police siren driving by
blue & red, woot woot, a stray, lost wolf
looking for injured things
stumbling out into the rays of the moon
out into the two lane highway.
we are not worried,
at all. Not at all.
this development is a maze
and you’ll never find us here
we’ve come here together
invisible on a Saturday night
to self destruct the things we brought
and dissolve into the skeleton of those we want.