Digging for Summer: 1986.

First Griffin's Deli, then Pizzaworld,
then all the houses on Jasper Street,
each sidewalk getting us five bucks
closer to what we were saving for,
our shovels scraping pitted concrete,
dreams of Jersey shore summers
thawing us in blue-black December,
tree limbs like wires, snow clumped
on our boots, hats, and gloves
while in our heads
danced girls around a campfire,
loving Billy's bleeding sax,
gushing for my Gibson guitar,
our hair slicked back,
both cool after months
of freezing our asses off,
suddenly musical, stealing grace
from the surface of the waves,
pulling lyrics from smoke and wind,
rising into our groove
like when we straighten
our backs to let the ache out,
dipping left and right,
Billy singing Springsteen
while I jammed on shovel-guitar,
blood warming our faces,
cars rattling by on chains
as if to remind us why
we were out there,
as if we could forget,
both sixteen and ready,
our futures calling,
two blocks left before dark.