After curfew, when the streetlights
came on and the moths began their soft howls,
the kids on my street grew into their bones.
Their hands and knees stretched like tides.
Their pockets dug deep enough for a pack of
cheap stuff, deep enough for other people’s
hands to slip in and pull on loose thread.
After the mothers slept and the fathers didn’t,
the kids on my street grew tired, grew weary,
grew tingles in places with no bone,
They brought each other
into their basements, fucked each other dry,
kissed each other, kissed each other, they kissed.
In October, when the chill got ugly,
few necks still bare, the kids
on my street carved the pumpkins
into the shape of any city but this one.
Days later, when the pumpkin had rot,
when the borders of the carved city was
wrinkled and pruned and no border at all,
just a hole with a relit flicker at the centre,
the kids on my street moaned.
They told each other secrets at the curb
where our parents once met, held each other’s
shoulders and they leaned over close
so their lips and ears flirted
and they told each other
we’re gonna get outta here one day, baby,
we’re gonna get the fuck outta here
and they forgot to whisper,
so they all cringed at that, shut their eyes at that,
the kids on my street.