and when you think
about it,
really think
about it,
it is all music
to my years. We laugh and we drink and we
make stupid jokes that cross lines drawn
in the sand with sword tips
sharpened on existences potent by our own
definitions and begging test by the hot bricks
in our hands and the tasty plate glass
across the eyes of the boy sitting cross table and
the girl on the stairwell trying to
sit something pretty and looking
for a way out of the bar somewhere under the radar and
the rainbow of the common draw.
The lip smack. The parched lip smack
that turns everything into
some kind of broad shouldered music
that bangs and pumps like an engine you could
wish to have. Drawing lines and line after line
is crossed heart and forehead and spat at and
steel toed, but no one goes to the hospital
tonight.
It is all music to my years.
I've gotten on and am less reckless
now than I was then, but sometimes you
do not have to look for the accident.
Sometimes the music finds you,
asleep at the table and
driving far too fast
to notice who's slipped you a number
on yellow blue lined paper.
Call me tomorrow. You will understand.
