Surlie’s shells were special.
Dropped on the ground by nervous seagulls*,
they were chipped like love,
worn out and worried at
and generally empty.
But, stuck in their crevices
hidden from the beaks of laughing, cackling Larus,
small shreds of flesh, skin. Bits of life.
We’d dig for those small sandy gems,
fingers stabbing, sticks dragging
out skin, teeth crunching on bits of sand.
Wash it down with some ice cold MGD.
Those were good times,
there on the union line.
Governor Walker bellowing something about wanting us all back,
the teachers didn’t understand him, he didn’t get them neither,
but he got us, lots of love.
Lots of love.
blown calls and mobbed up fans.
We just listened, one hand in our ass-pocket,
the other giving the Man the bird.
No way were we giving up on Surlie’s shells.