Poem: Walk Away

Walk Away 

By Andrea Janov 
QuailBellMagazine.com 

*Editor's Note:  Originally published in Speech Bubble January  2012.

​With the smell of dead leaves
     and the biting wind hinting at coming snow
I knew I was home.

 
     Though New York City is only
one hundred and fifty miles east,
it never has that
      fragrance of late fall
like Pennsylvania –
      the sweet mold of decaying leaves,
the scent of back to school,
 and Halloween,
               of days I shivered
                           because it wasn’t cool
     to wear a jacket.
 
I walk with my hands stuffed
       in the pockets of a Descendents hoodie, too thin
for the weather. Goosebumps
                                prick my body.
 
Shouting voices grow louder,
                      muffled music escapes
                            the building, and skateboards crack
against pavement. The parking lot is littered
 with punk kids, half unloaded vans,
   and boxes of merch  :  T-shirts and records spill
       over the ground.
 
The windows are still cluttered
with flyers and posters,
Bedford : Nerve Agents : Strung Out
                   A New Found Glory : Abscission
layered underneath
        An Albatross flyer
                              for tonight.
 
The homemade sign, stenciled and spray painted
      US HOMEBASE
                  hangs above the door.
 
People mill
    around –
in and out the door
and back in again.
 
   I pass by faces
     I almost recognize.
                    A nod or wave
            from former best friends
     as I walk through the crowd.
 
       We were going to free Tibet,
       feed the homeless,
       and save every cow, chicken, and pig
     from the slaughter house.
 
     An Albatross is already playing,
their former pop-punk identity
   mutated into this noise-rock-funk-side-show.
I stand in what should have been a pit   :  stare
       as they writhe,
                      his back arched   :   screams pulled from
               somewhere deep in his diaphragm
     the band splayed behind him   :   hunched
            over distorted keyboards and screeching guitars.
       Becoming the descendants of Iggy 
     and the Stooges : the MC5  :  T Rex
              preaching to their new followers,
                    Brothers and sisters…   
 
   I look to the audience :
       tight jeans, designer sneakers,
           hair messy in just the right way :
     all eyes locked on the performance.
       
      I walk out
without saying goodbye.
 

#Unreal #Poem #PunkRock #SideShows #Music #Love #TightJeans #NYC

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