by Ivan Fischer
Dry cracked asphalt, dry cracked lips.
worn out tires squealing,
the familiar smell of pulp heavy on the air.
Shitkicker kids flock to the shore,
crows picking the black bubblegum scabs
off the sidewalk.
Same summertime questions:
Cops at the beach?
Do we need more beer?
Cops at the tracks?
Is Roddy’s sister eighteen yet?
Valley Boys cause bullshit at the Gas ‘n Go;
round up who we can, let’s make ‘em taste gravel.
Bonfire Saturday night at Giveout Ranch Road,
smells like burnt cedar
and diesel. Chewspit through chipped teeth,
breath warm with moonshine.
Bottles smash, engines sputter, someone’s hollering
in the dark.
Wait for the satisfying clap of an aluminum bat
upside a Valley Boy skull.
Cops on the way,
finish the beer,
start the truck,
burn up the backroad under that
splatter of stars.