Not dead yet…
The Tribe
We sat, huddled
On the dark path
Beside the train track
A sweatshirt-hooded tribe
Chanting over Amir’s
Burning collage
We watched his picture
And accomplishments
Burn from the center out
Fanning the fire
And kindling it with grass
Until the very cardboard
Caught a lusty fire
And smoke choked the air
Erik pissed on the ashes
Completing our ritual
Of teenage badassery
Composed solely of “us”
The world was in our arms
Narrow and close together
Born again into members of
The secret society of eight
Advertisements
