Michael Walsh

Our Ponchos Doubles As Blankets That Night

One.

We walked dark bay streets to parked car too far. Past empty houses of people who 
only find it necessary to visit during the warm weather. The house at the end of the street 
facing us erupting with boys stepping out onto rocks; frat-like, dressed in proper 
jock clothes, beer in hands: "twenty bucks says you won't streak around the block!" 
We were wearing ponchos, walking toward them, I was only sure of our beating to come. 
But no ridicule came about, boys too busy impressing the only girl who even bothered 
to show up.

Our ponchos doubled as blankets that night.

Two.

Strange beginnings happening too soon.
Kid across from me drunk,
swaying,
mimicking with his fingers
the proud piano my best friend's banging on.

Some sort of soft music to ease this drunks' soul.
Looking up every so often,
I'm sure of his wondering:
"why can't I be the maestro to this music?"