a night.

they are playing pool & it is freezing in this bar.

i see boots & polos

and familiar faces

through a haze of smoke.

i smell cigarettes & whiskey - that weird, airborne cocktail of comfort.

we talk about the warmth of cooking,

during that turbulent one of four.

with us, you are family.

and i knew that i was.

(and hoped that i still am).

we talk,

through the cheering & yelling.

about the acquisition of houses.

about the morphing of  personalities.

about a house that was once painted.

by four men.

i laugh & cough & choke on the thick air.

and on the ride home we talk about youth.

and how we grasp for it.

and the plastic bag sits on my lap - warm & inviting.

and tempting.

and we pass the headlights over & over again.

wishing for home. wishing for sleep.

and wishing for those four little years.

those four little years we spent back east.


Jenny Moreau said…
very intriguing.
sometimes I wish those 4 years where like a good CD. One that you could play over and over and analyze it for everything it was worth.

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