Practice over, dark already,
cold as hell outside,
February 1964 before
we head out into the snow.
We’re in the shower
howling our teenage
boy inanities as the hard
water caroms off
our tired shoulders
and washes away
the algebra test
for now at least.
Out the door and
into the daunting wind,
lashing our faces,
stinging our flesh into
life. This is it;
this is real, the
bruises, aches,
the pumping heart,
our breath pouring
out like smoke
in the wild night,
our souls flying out
over our little town.
We make it home and kick
the snow off our boots; we
think we know something.