Because we are young and our blood
is boiling within our veins, we must
congregate summer nights 

in the parking lot of the drug store,
dozens of us, prepped 
in button downs and penny loafers,

sizing each other up, looking for reasons
to let loose the anger over persistent acne,
social awkwardness, of being scorned

and ridiculed by Jenny and Mary, 
baiting for the accidental bump 
with which to take supreme umbrage, 

daring glare leading to a word, 
a shove, a balled fist,
the crunch of cartilage. 

The blood leaves its confines,
the warm energy of the sun
passes from asphalt to cheek,

petulant anger finally asleep.