Dusted Walls

Drink with cash in hand
and feel the rough wood

under finger and thumb
alternate mechanically.

Music is out of all time
and circular in its bold

endeavour. This is where
my memory is anchored;

this dusty bowl of weeds
and bloated mouth-breathers.

A rustle and a snap of light
before my hands are cold,

wet again. Let’s celebrate
each waking morning as

if it were the first. Wet heads
as if the sprinklers even worked.

We’re forever slurping at sorrow
through time, forever and a day.

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