We were only boys. Spike-hearted teenagers with round rescue-me eyes. We threaded our Docs with fat red laces. Our hair fell in piles, skulls shiny as eggs. We rolled in tattooed crews. We spread white wings the size of infinity, sprayed names on subway cars. We threw bottles, hid rolls of quarters in our fists, wiped blood from our eyes. Our mothers didn’t recognize us. We were fists clenched tight, black wheels spinning. We were music, hard and loud and lit up from inside. It was 1987. We were only boys, and it was all we knew how to be.