with the very best violin
strapped to the back
of his dad’s grey trench coat
he survived somehow
wrote bad poetry
rode that rotting skateboard
like a blocked beat poet in search of inspiration
and God, the class belle loved his scent of pallid suicide

skipping class, palms sweaty
he was chubby acid-wash jeans
she was laughing blue eye shadow, mascara smudged, black cat earrings
oh, could they ever talk on the phone for hours

they were Betty and Archie
skating in Kensington Market
a year of punks,
subway stations,
escalators,
vintage clothing shops

he wrote love in her yearbook
she introduced her mother
and, though she faked it,
she never could play the violin to save her life

—EMILY POHL-WEARY

(Originally published summer, 2002.)