Among the pile of tires
where we would hunt for snakes
you showed me your new bruises.
When I told you one of them looked
like a buffalo on a bike, you flipped
me off and climbed up the bank.
It was Thanksgiving, and we were
spending it like used dogs
beneath the bridge
that brought people in,
or better yet, out of our town.
We were kids inexperienced
in the word impossible.
Searching for cigarette boxes
or other useful litter,
you told me you wish you were
a crayfish or anything else
with a shell. I knew what you meant
because I knew your father.
Later, after we laughed
about the pumpkin pie
we were missing, you pulled
a can of spray paint from your bag
and asked me, Would you rather
be unnoticed or strong? I fell
silent by the creek and watched
with awe as you painted in green
against the buttress —
LISTEN TO RAGE
— MATTHEW MERSON
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