The Promoter Looks Back

Shaved for battle,
they used to say,
those bullet boys
with the rippling ink
and the no-quarter eyes.

Where are they now? 
I used to see them at all the shows.

All we wanted was hardcore and metal.
We knew the attendant politics would follow
but we thought we could steer the noise to safety.
We hired a bike gang
to keep the kids safe
from their warfare
and it mostly worked.

One night I ended up
rescuing a scrawny little racist
from the bikers
and drove him home to Clinton
where he and his brothers in arms
rented a farm.

On the way he told me
how it had started in Miami
where he was beaten daily
by Cuban kids
until he found the Hammerskins
and their cradle of white.

I told him I was of mixed race.
And I asked him how he felt about me.

He paused a long time and said,

“I still think it’s wrong.”
And then,
“I know that’s bad, but…yeah.”

Shaved for battle he was,
and his head shone in the moonlight
as he walked from the car to the driveway.

I did not wait to see if he waved,
throwing gravel as I spun out of the driveway
into the quiet road.

And I never saw him at the shows,
ever again.