Punk Rock Poet

So I make plans with a guy friend to go see a band last night. I stop by his place and we're chatting and catching up and he starts telling me how completely in love he is with this girl he's been long-distance dating. It's hitting him hard and he's not really happy about it. It's adorable really, because he's this rather scary-looking punk rock boy who claims to be rotten to the core: 6'2", violet hair, piercings, tattoos, leather jacket, the whole nine yards. But as you might know, these are the guys who fall the hardest, and he's fallen for this lovely, vivacious woman. I'm teasing him and cheering him on and, OK, occasionally making kissy noises at him, and telling him it's going to be OK and he's growling and pacing like a caged animal dragging on a cigarette and scowling. But it's like he can't help himself, his heart is so full he has to talk about it, has to unburden himself, and since I'm probably the only one of his friends who will listen to this for any length of time without laughing in his face or punching him in his face, I get the privilege of seeing her photos and hearing about their amazing time together and all of this makes me happy for him because he really deserves a nice girlfriend and it makes me smile because it reminds me how young he is at 25 and sometimes I forget that.

He cracks open a beer, takes a swig and stares into his closet for several minutes even though most of his clothes are in various piles around his room - a sea of black cotton and black denim and various lethal-looking belts and other accessories.

-What are you doing?

-Figuring out what shirt to wear.

-How about the black one?

-Har. Har.

He picks one out then goes to his computer and shows me a few more photos of the girl. Then he switches the music from The Clash to a moody, achy Radiohead and opens a word document and says:

-I hate myself for this, but... read this poem I wrote.

-No! You didn't!

-Yes I did.

-Oh. My. God. You dork. You are in love.

-I know. I told you. Fuck. Stop making those kissy noises.

-You didn't send it to her did you?

-Yup.

-No!

-Go ahead. Read it.

-Aw man! I draw the line at reading bad poetry.

-No. It's good. Read it. You know I can write, Becca. Just read it.

-OK, but if there are any rain metaphors I'm kicking your ass. I can't take a rain metaphor right now. It will send me over the edge.

So, I read it and it was good. And there weren't any rain metaphors. And apparently the poem went over well with the girlfriend.

-I don't want this right now, Becca. It's so inconvenient.

-I bet after you see her next weekend you'll graduate from poetry to musicals. I can see it now: you twirling around streetlamps singing On The Street Where You Live.

He growls at me and throws on Elvis. You know he's really happy when he puts on Elvis. He does his best impersonation and dedicates the next song to me - Devil In Disguise - and twirls me around the room.