We wanted more than we could chew on.
Our sickly sky squirted some strange goo
on the rooftops. There was a whistling…
And just like that, summer ended.
The poorly mended streets
seemed to mimic our distress.
We dressed in white. Our heads in bunches.
Lunching in the nearby shadows.
And all the radios of our youth’s frenzy
fizzled, frazzled with the new static
that would become our mode.
I composed a hasty ode to bullshit,
stuffed the paper in my pocket,
and hopped the bench.
Or it might have been a trench…
But I was bleeding too hard to notice.