she's the kind of girl
who wears rain boots in summer
in hopes of catching the eye
of anything or anyone

he's the kind of boy
who sews patches on his denim
in attempts to impress
the punkrock cardboard cutouts

they're the kind of kids
whose parents keep a watchful fist
on nothing but the bottles of gin
hidden in the top drawer

i receive the sticky bath of
new berlin.
its morning breath decays beside us in the black leather jackets
too small to do much warming

punkrock won't save us this
time

we
will be quaking
in our secondhand
boots