Sonnet #7

For Biker Boy Will

How could America ever love you? She misunderstands your fresh pressed white T, the gaudy ticking gold on your left wrist, the swim trunks and tted, the retro Js gracing the grimy pink-red outside courts. She don’t know what to do with all your swagger and braggadocious bluster, the gum- apping wolf—pronounced woof—tickets. You said, the losing team’s son aint gon eat tonight. You said the game was for ve racks. You could lie your ass o . You said, this shit is really really hard. But of course, there is a mother’s protection— my old girl kept me in the house and I thank her for that.