I fall asleep on my elbow,
pushing open the front gate
to place my foot into
a mudslide of grass and bottle tops,
edging along the fence to R.E.’s clubhouse.
Under the mulberry’s low canopy
a boy is playing the saw and
someone’s crowd surfing toward the grapevine,
yet I could be standing on the ski-slope kitchen floor
buttering scraps and talking about the sun on Fire Island,
or screaming hell down the hall at the po-po.
Pigs muscle in and atrophy us out
the broken front door,
over the brittle kerb and onto the street.
They hook a guy by his backpack, pulling him down,
until his head smashes on the ground
and knives clatter out.
The fitz are the only things which linger on.
Punk Wave (Baker Street, Richmond)
1 June 2014