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Punch Bowl United States
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the punch bowl, venicethe bowl holds sunlightlike a drink nobody’s finished,pools of it shimmeringon smooth concrete,and the kids drop in anyway,flying over the glareon a plank of woodand four hard wheels.freedom looks like this sometimes.not a manifesto,just a fourteen-year-oldcatching air above the copingwhile the pacific breathesits soft salt breezeacross the boardwalk,easing the whole jungleof concrete and hustleone degree cooler.the history is right there in the skin.wax cemented into the ledges,decades of it,dogtown ghosts in every scrape,z-boys who drained pools in '75so these kids could havesomewhere to fall.that’s the inheritance.not money, not land,just a curve of concreteand the knowledgethat somebody flew here first.and the new generation takes it,grabs it midairthe way you grab anythingworth keeping,finds their meaning in the chaosof muscle beach hustlers,incense vendors,sirens on speedway,then drops back into the bowlwhere it’s just gravity,sunlight,and the sound of wheelswriting the next layerinto the skin of the place,another coat of waxfor whoever comes flyingafter.
