thrashlove

Fifty slinky teens, who'd not
been born when I first danced in thrash,
spent themselves in circles, crashing
to the floor, windmilling.
They looked as though they'd praise all evil
Warm, and long smiles, sweat betrayed.

These two young tougher ones
jaywalked across the hardwood
and then meeting at the middle,
joy hugged quickly. Then let go.
Jest and show.
Stomp and go.
Innocence. Despite the black flags and the violence.