Kurt Cobain’s been dead 5 years

and they say our town will be the next Seattle.

Halfway between Detroit and Chicago,

grunge and indie are king. We wear former patient’s clothes

pilfered from the old TB clinic on the north side.

Teenagers downtown on a rainy Saturday

rolling by the coffee shop guarded by stone lions,

riverbanks covered in Canada goose shit.

 

Too wet out to skate besides the parking ramp

and we pissed off the security guard last week

so we head toward the record store

past the junk shop with the walls all painted black

where the silent featherweight clerk sells incense and Manic Panic:

Hardcore and pious or high on heroin? We never can tell.

 

The flared bottoms of my corduroys drag on the pavement

soaking up puddle water, hems turning to lazy dog tongues

lapping at my Puma sneakers.

I re-safety pin the back pocket

every time I fall off my skateboard

Faded imprint of my asthma inhaler

turning the blue wales stubborn white.

 

In the Flipside records parking lot I hit Trent’s cigarette

forgetting the English teacher who works on weekends

is friends with my mom. We want to be 20 and not 15.

On the school bus last week Josh put a finger to his lips,

said Shhh, placed his Discman headphones on my ears,

and baptized me in the shimmering opening of Daydream Nation.

 

Careening down Lorraine past Woods Lake 25 years later

I still remember how the sky looked at that moment:

ripples on water, static cloud, wet newspaper.

Something torn open. Each album a snow globe, a whole world.

We linger at Flipside for hours. Sonic Youth. The Pixies. Sparklehorse.

Gleaning all we can from liner notes, each passing customer.

 

When Mike from the community college photo class asks

Remember when Fugazi played Kalamazoo?

I smile wide and say no, then try to bum a smoke.

He shakes his head and laughs:

I’ve been straight edge since you were in diapers

Our town could be the next Seattle.

We read about it in Rolling Stone.