a thought for the kids who write band names on the edges of their books
a mark you can only see when all the pages have fallen and are drawn closed,
that looks like senseless scrawl when the pages are open mid-way or torn out,
but closed - and with that blocky, inky font - says something
indelible

a thought for the kids with denim jackets with carefully curated pins and patches
who, with their soft, wide-open eyes, watch your eyes
as they dart around making out the pins and patches
looking for a flicker of recognition as you look
at the tableau they’ve laid out for you
so you know exactly who you’re dealing with
so you know exactly where they fit
and where they refuse to

a thought for the fading of the denim
the blue to blue-white
the thick to threadbare
a thought for the harp of fine white gauzy strands that appears on the elbow
that breaks, and soon yields to frayed tangled knots
and then one day - trimmed off, ripped off - becomes a hole,
a simple absence of fabric

but for now, let’s have a thought about the book edge and the still blue denim and the pins and the patches
about the band name
about the “hey, I’m here too,
out here…
yeah, me too”
about the first fast conversations, the jousting chats:
“did you know that?…”, “did you hear the live version where?…”, “did you know that he ended up?…”
and then suddenly
the out is in,
you are suddenly
two outs in your own in

and now other outs are drawing in too
“hey, are you talking about?…”, “do you have their first one?…”, “it’s the bass that really makes it…”

the outs are in, and big, bigger,
in,
really in now, really in it together now
under a single cloak of thick, solid denim
on the same page of a book whose pages are falling together
each page dropping the next clue
of the meaning that we mark together,
when the book is finally closed

And it closes.

and there it sits
it gathers some dust
it passes from desk, to shelf, to box
from upstairs, to basement, to attic
mildew, must, mites

and it waits


a thought for the kids who find it
a niece maybe, a nephew, a stranger even
who picks up the book

old book, damaged thing, not even good for donation,
writing on the edge too…

“hmmm, is that a band name?  gotta look them up.  Hurm…”
 

a thought for the kids who do not keep it to themselves
a thought for the kids whose out bring us in
a thought for the kids who write band names on the edges of their books