by Adrian Matejka
In the purplish clutch between evening & more
evening, boys smoked cigarettes down to their minty
ends & talked about ass like mad hams & hips
like pow, mouths curling with avid adornment & vivid
hands shaping the air—palms down to palms up
in half circles of perplexity. The C shape the tobacco
still glowing between fingers makes is the closest
any one of these boys will get a girl’s hip today.
Which is why these boys, in thin tanks & hopeless
shirts, cut conversations easily from Watch how I get
at her to Knuckle up, fool, throwing shoulders & fists
at each other like minor superheroes with no villains
to fight. No capes in bare knuckles. No saving the block
either because every swing breaks something.
Last updated September 23, 2022