Dirty and bearded.
Surviving.
Defying the legions of antagonists.
Drinking malt liquor
down by the river
and train tracks,
next to the fire.
An old friend from out of town
had come back for a break,
'just to settle the nerves'.
We talked of lost loves
over the chatter
of the ancient freight train.
I thought about its engine
and how it had plowed through more miles
and nondescript towns
than either of us would ever get the chance to.
what a shame.
what a shame.
It was a Tuesday and we
both said that we would give anything
for it to be a Thursday,
or a weekend,
or anything
but what it really was.
I had to work in the morning.
The curtain of graveyard mist in front of the moon
swayed in the early October air.
It was still Tuesday.
I drank the last of my beer
and tossed it into the shallow water
before finding my best friend asleep on a bench.
what a shame.
"I feel like it's 1964." I said to my friends,
eating soup from a tin can.
I couldn't believe how cold the nights were becoming.
And right there,
right before our eyes
The summer gave up on us.
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