Poem

Boys’ Life

We were killing time at the dollar bin,
Fingers rifling through cd cases, clacking
Together like popping knuckle joints in this time
Between visits from college. “Have you ever heard
Of this band?” asks my friend, bespectacled,
And he hands me a cd from the used bin. The cover
Is mostly solid black, save for the widescreen photo
Of a poorly lit city skyline at sunset that stretches
Across the bottom. Its buildings are mostly shadow;
Local stores, windmills, and grain silos pool together
While the sky itself is a vibrant pastel red and yellow.
A slight shift of shade denotes mountains
In the distance, so of course this is Midwestern,
And of course, I haven’t heard of them, regrettably.
But have you heard of _____? I counter,
Who are at least twice as obscure and with members
Who went on to bigger and brighter basement bands.
We discuss the merits of their record and their influence
Ad nauseum, until we’ve listed and namedropped
Countless artists and spoken phrases like “integrity”
And “forefathers of modern alternative music”
With authority we have yet to earn. It’s enough
To yearn for just a photo of the band as the cover,
Like on those old records my father owned, that old music
I grew up on and abandoned and that
I’ll eventually return to once I’ve lived a little more.
My friend decides to buy the record after lengthy debate.
We exit the thrift store at a quarter after six, and post up
Against the trunk of my 89 Mercury Cougar to talk
A little more before we have to split up, and we talk
About girls and music and forming our own band
About who will play what, and who’s got cigarettes.
We talk until the store closes and then we talk shit
about the people filing out the narrow sliding doors
into the dimly lit car lot. There is no limit
to the amount of talking we can do, no answers
to the questions that we ask.