Woman at diner who knew Fugazi,
I wear all these pins
on my denim jacket
waiting for someone like you
because a t-shirt isn’t
loud enough.
Woman who knew Fugazi,
waitress at diner,
had “seen them twenty times,”
without exaggeration—
with cracking olive skin
and graying curly black
hair to her shoulders,
the light refracting off my pin
my friend bought at a record store
in Philly reflecting her the image
of a slender, voluptuous youth
donned in fake leather
worn Levis and beat Vans
shaking her mop of jet-black curly hair
in a throng of like-minded dressed
individuals in a dingy club
angsty Washingtonians
fleeing the Reagan Youth
mad at Capitalism
mad at Middle Class,
mad at Excess, Abuse, Malaise—
driven by the furious punk rhythms
of sweat-drenched Fugazi.
Woman who knew Fugazi,
friends with Ian MacKaye,
hadn’t seen him in years—
waitress at restaurant
where the scrambled eggs are dry
and the coffee is stale.
Waitress at diner,
Mother now,
wife, adult,
[[punk]]
at heart.
