in december 1992
the wild
the innocent
the e street shuffle
playing through grainy headphones
on a tapped-up
walkman
that has seen the face-end
of more concrete
than me
one foot of snow on the ground
covering feet
and shins
springsteen’s voice
right like youth
like me
youth incarnate
for now
eighteen years old
boosted cigarette in my mouth
heading toward
the campus of a million coeds
from lowly
suburbia
1993
coming with a bullet
that’ll turn out to be
just another nothing year
with my heart
broken all over the city
of pittsburgh
but i
don’t even know it yet
in this
a portrait of the artist
december 1992
puffing
my old man’s menthol kool
as the snow
consumes me
waiting at
the bus stop
freezing the good year
peering into warm cars
stopped at red lights
looking for
another saint
but laughing
laughing like a drunk
joyous
after an old lady
glares at me
locks her door
yells to her husband
to run the
red light
which
of course
he
does.
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