These are the artifacts of our youth
the wounded soldiers and the broken
cigarettes, just the leftovers that won’t keep
us good anymore, because we are already
sea-sick of it, because good is just something
like too much sugar on an empty stomach.
And so we’ll spit and sleep on sofas
because our parents didn’t make them
because they just left us the pillows
so we could build our own forts, and
we were content playing house and
doctor, until we learned to play war
not theirs of course, but ours because we
liked the sound of originality as it dripped
from our teeth, because we knew we'd
make such good rebels, hopping over
backyards and running through fences,
because we are fermented-warm, and spilling,
down on to the floor of our parents'
house, just a piled mess of skin and
beer, lost in a forest of aluminum
trophies and wrappers, that will be
our bookmarks in the morning
to remind us where we left off.