it's 1983 and
she has a mohawk.
you have no business
downtown; you live
in the suburbs,
and black
eye-liner can't
change that.
it's 1983 and
she's a bartender
in a punk club,
working class, and
she can see
through your fake ID
suburban
bullshit.
"what do you want,
honey?"
you could tell her,
but you don't know how
to say it
yet.
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