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.
1 comment:
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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