These Days

On a thick pub tabletop we’ve crammed in
as many empty glasses as can fit, as many
stories as can fit, drinking to the years since
we were sure about what color hair love
must have, what dollars and what frames
we’d work for. On the gravel outside
a four-door sedan by a mini-van. In it
we clutch 
our boxes and our wrappers,
in the back 
there’s a factory designed
to entertain the wee. 
Remember backseat
cushions pressed 
against perfume,
and fogged windows offered 
the privacy
of a hotel room. Sometimes 
you come
to the light with an old tune playing 
too low,
no one else at the intersection. Your hair
grows, and your voice crackles, and the pedal
longs for sneakers, and you spin, till the sign
reminds you of 45  and of the wealth of this
life. When it’s all gone I hope we can return,
stage, without carpeting, tile, stone
sidewalks and long highways. I want
to tell 
you how much love I have, how much
how much time with you meant to me.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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