Surlie’s shells were special.

Dropped on the ground by nervous seagulls*,

*[They are most closely related to the terns

(family Sternidae) and only distantly related

to auks, skimmers, and more distantly to the

waders.] 1.

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.

Shit about

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.

No way.

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