Crystals reflect off the flickering lights
Fat fingers roll over another paper
Another cold, dark winter evening
Nothing doing for teenagers
Except the sickly sweet smoke
Rising from below the road
Underpass√© graffiti. “I woz ‘ere”
Small town tagging, not quite
The wit to make it onto talent shows
But these aren’t our words
We shield flames
With our cupped hands
Gather outside a solitary shop
Joke about sticking the place up
Boisterously demonstrate
Lacking amenities to pass time
Adults skulk past, step into their cars
We glimpse at our older selves
Give them a two fingered salute
As a parting gift