There was always one house with absent parents, a drum kit in the basement,

chaotic bliss above ground. In the kitchen, a younger brother

clothed only in a blanket, threatening vegetarian girls with a taxidermied iguana.

When they fight back he sneers “you can’t hit me, I’m holding a bible.”

 

We dye the corgi’s fur green and pierce the cat’s ear,

take turns lying down in the driveway and ollieing over eachother.

Bleach and Kool-Aid in our hair. Wood glue to make the spikes on a mohawk

stand up.The abandoned paper mill was our clubhouse.

 

They should have called us the Jackass generation.

I know who stole the pig mask from the Blind Pig in Ann Arbor,

but won’t ever tell. Spring days after school all we did was skate.

Winchell and the curb behind Munchie Mart, our usual spots.

 

That summer I became The Girl Who Could Ollie, the title better

than a name. I hung with those dudes through and through-

Roadkill, insects, flatulence. Remember when Tim drank

a solo cup of puddle water for only five dollars?

 

Wind in our hair, clack of wheels on asphalt, speed wobble down Maple.

We made our own videos, impersonating the greats from Toy Machine

and Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater. Film cameras capturing

more fails and bails than anything else.

 

When T’s Pontiac Sunfire died in front of the house

we built a ramp down the porch and up to its carcass.

Skated huge dents in the roof and hood. Red and black spray paint

smudging off and blending with the purple bruises on our limbs.

 

We told passerby we didn’t know who the car belonged to.

In between shove its and board slides we learned

how to joke and banter, how to fall and get back up. Amid

thuds and laughter, that endless sunset on McCourtie Street.