at the bottle.
with nostalgia of being in the crib, which I don’t remember.
at the bar.
the proverbial confessional.
a hardwood keyboard with shackles for the wrist,
long enough though to grip and reach the lip.
fill, full and overfill.
to smoke cigarettes,
I loved those eyes,
sad and blue
starkly grey.
piercing through your sense like mr. Dylan’s morbid harp.
i’d put on my gumboots
full of cement.
and go swimming in the river.
feels good,
feels,
feels,
its cold,
being numb.