Ya see what I have to write about

He didn't take any shit
and he told Vitaly right off he
was ready to slap someone
to keep them in line, the blonde haired
punk walking with him nodded to the
story, shifted his long-board, "Yeah, he slapped my brother
tonight, this guys great," He was fumbling
down the sidewalk throwing rights into the air
long-haired with a baseball cap and the image of
Rob Zombie somewhere in his late 30s,
Steve was making cut motions at his neck
mouthing, "let's get the fuck outta here," we were
going to get mugged or killed or whatever
but we kept on in the gloom of the West Chester night,
it feeling like summer with no street lights and the occasional
blazing headlights of a lonely car and I kept up with the blonde
cutting jokes when Rob uttered some drunken wisdom,
his house was close, said he'd been just in from California
and was staying in a room at $200 flat with a shared
bathroom we'd have to be quiet to use, he was gonna
play his guitar (which the blonde kid assured he was great
tho told us they'd just met) and had a "huge blunt,"
that I wasn't interested in smoking, just wanted to see
where this whole thing was going, so when
we got to the house he stopped and made sure
everybody was silent, said he knew all the
acronyms, Steve catching my eye going "whatever
the fuck that means,"
he opened the door to husband and wife sitting
Monday night on the couch watching the tv box,
"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" "huh,
I live here," "This is my fucking house! Get the fuck out!"
he stepped pleadingly into entrance way
door in the fight for wandering lost minds and Steve was
halfway up the street already, Vitaly and me backing down the
front steps and laughing our asses off catching up, the blonde kid called us back
and the last we saw of those idiots in the heavy night three blocks back
was their waving helpless god-damned arms