Them Kids
They had names like Joey, Josephina, Angela,
Tina, Tony, and Gino, names ending in vowels.
Mine ended in a vowel too, the wrong kind,
not an A, O, Y but an I. My best friend,
Karen didn’t have a vowel at the end of her name.
We sat together behind St. Rocco’s in deep, dark
shadows along the basketball court and watched
boys shoot baskets in moonlight—
girls not allowed, unless the boys weren’t there.
Friends, enemies, lovers, smoked cigarettes, joints,
passed around dark brown liquor, winced as fire
slinked down our throats. Josephine would steal
homemade wine to share, hidden under her shirt.
Tony got beaten for being out, Angie’s drunken
father came looking for his kid, booming
her name as he barreled down the street.
We’d scatter into bushes, crawl behind cars
and when they were gone, the coast clear
we howled at the moon, begging forgiveness
from god for all the sins we were about to commit.