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friday night
one o’ six am
forty seven years old,
half glass of pinot
a stale brownie
and phoebe bridges
on the ear goggles.
finished clean up
after pam and martin left,
washing dishes and packing up
the left over cheese,
listening to pink floyd and bob marley
brain damage and bablyon system.

before they came,
i brewed raspberry syrup and
squeezed fresh lemon juice,
ordered pizza, laid out the cheese plate
with home made pickles,
made a clover cocktail, a mojito,
a gin and tonic, a manhattan, and a few
brooklyns. we drained three bottles of
cabernet sauvignon, ordered pizza
and listened to an acoustic
indie spotify playlist.

the conversation settled into familiar pockets:
children, concerts we went to, television shows we’re watching
the authenticity of reading books versus listening to them.

earlier, i watched a video from a nineteen ninety seven.
a road trip we took across the country. i’d found an
old vhs tape a few days ago and transferred it to mp4.
in it i am young, skinny and jittery. ears pierced,
a few fewer tattoos. anxious.  full of life.

it’s a miracle how we live in the past, this moment and
in awe of who we might become in the threatening future.

there is no way that boy in nineteen ninety seven
could have imagined this man, constructing this poem
twenty years later- fat in belly, white in hair and beard.
how will we look at sixty seven?
how will the promises weather the storms?

i don’t want
this night to end,
but tomorrow
is closer than it looks
and these days
there is little need
for such reckless chaos.