We Real Cool
we real cool. we
left school. we
Dallas Winston and Two-Bit Mathews leaned against a street sign, watching Ponyboy Curtis kick rocks as he approached. The sun shined down on them, a rare occurrence, and it was, in every kind of reason, a nice day.
"Nice day, ain't it, Pony?" Two-Bit commented. He looked up at the clear blue sky, reaching into his pocket for the cigarette he'd found by the general store sidewalk. His smile grew wider, and he slung an arm around the younger boy's shoulder.
Ponyboy shrugged, and kept his face ducked, creating shadow where there was none, "I guess."
Two-Bit shook his head, accepting Dallas' extended light, and blowing out a gust of smoke, "Don't give me that, Pone. You don't get days like these every once in a while. This is something good, kid."
Dallas grimaced, his own eyes cast over by the shade of his eyebrows, the sunshine taking no hold over him, "Shut it with the spoken word, Two-Bit. I ain't in the mood."
"This is what you're missin' all the time, kid, when your all locked in your room reading and crap. You got all this, and you never see it," he went on as the three started walking down the street.
Dallas gulped a mouthful of beer, lagging behind and glaring at the storefronts, "Yeah, yeah..."
A boy passed them, not even nine or ten, with a green backpack saddled on his shoulders, his face hidden by dark brown hair, held back by mounds of grease. His sweatshirt--blue--was just as ragged and greasy. He looked at them with an eyebrow raised, but kept walking.
"You'd think you'd never seen the sun before, Two-Bit," Pony said, his hands in his pockets and his eyes flat, "'S not like it never happens."
Two-Bit shook his head, his smile unfaltering, "Days like these, kid. They don't happen every day."
lurk late. we
strike straight. we
Dallas Winston and Two-Bit Mathews staggered over the grass, two other boys chuckling behind them. Two-Bit couldn't control the bouts of laughter that shook his frame, and he leaned on one of the boys, "Shoot, how far from the Curtis'? I can't...even...ha...see straight."
Dallas kept his hands in his pocket, walking as steady as might be expected, "Shut up, Two-Bit, 'fore I beat you upside the head."
Two-Bit laughed louder, nearly falling over in hysterics, "It's a...nice day...Dally....don't...ha...don't be a...fucker...ha!"
The other boys laughed with him, and Dally let it roll. The wind howled in their ears, and the moon dipped low in the sky, leaving the ground bright and clear. More laughter sounded from across a parking lot, and a car was revved. Dallas saw a shining new car spinning a corner, with the hooted laughter of the occupants fading off until the car was out of sight.
"Greaser!" they shouted.
Dallas moved faster, jogging up until he saw a lump on the sidewalk. It didn't move, and Dallas moved closer. It was a boy, nine or ten, with dark brown hair and a blue sweatshirt, stained with blood. Dallas could recognise him, and noticed how he didn't have his dark green backpack.
"Hey," Two-Bit said, perhaps a bit too loudly, "isn't that the kid from earlier?"
Dallas looked over to where the car disappeared.
"Ah, forget it," one of the boys said, "We gotta meet Sheppard at his place!"
sing sin. we
thin gin. we
"'ay, lookit!" Tim Sheppard laughed, flicking his burnt cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, leaning down towards the cement, "someone left their shit!"
Two-Bit followed his gaze, stumbling towards his friend, "What're you talking 'bout?"
Tim shook a ragged backpack in the air, letting the contents spill onto the street, "Check if there's cash...I feel like getting wasted..."
"Shoot," another boy said, flicking his own cigarette beside Two-Bit's, "you already wasted, Sheppard."
Two-Bit picked up the green backpack, flimsy, barely held together by it's fabric, "...looks familiar..."
Tim scowled and kicked the ground, "Nothing innit but a dull blade. Let's hit the Dingo."
Two-Bit thought of a boy he'd seen earlier that day, with dark brown hair and a blue sweatshirt. He had a dark green backpack. He saw another kid by the lot with blood all over him, without his backpack.
Coincidence.
jazz june. we
die soon.
Author's Note: We read this poem in school, and I like it. Called "We Real Cool", written by Gwendolyn Brooks. This is so random, but I wanted to do something where one object is connected in some way to each verse. Probably didn't work, probably severe crap, but I don't feel like fixing it.