This is happening more and more.
It’s ungodly early and we’re tripping on bricks
a pack of feckless teenagers still.
That never changed.
The tall one, skinny with rosy cheeks
and the eyes of a fighter
is holding loosely onto my hand
his nose won’t stop bleeding.

We follow the broad intimidating one
in a red sox hat,
he’s punching every stop sign we pass
and just hollering
how we’ll always stick together
you don’t mess with family
(I’ve known them all for three weeks)
his accent is getting thicker through his swollen lip.

In the rear the shorter one, but still much taller than me,
his hair stuck up in all directions
is still getting his breath back from that sock to the stomach.

We all love that frozen moment, when first punch turns to full on brawl.
Peter says even if you get hit, at least you’re feeling something.
We all taste like bourbon, cause this is the South now.

I’m draggin’ them home in my favorite blue skirt,
two heads shorter at least.
Saying, soon we’ll be home boys, I’ll fix you up then.
Because they’ll fight for me, I fight for them.
Saying stop punching public property, Paul and
Stevie, I’ve got you, don’t cry
The Pats are on tomorrow boys, and we’ve all got work to do.
just a little longer

I find family where I can these days.