November Blues

I’m drunk in Boston thinking about you.
Folks up this area seem to think the world may end soon but hey, I’m still here.
Still wondering where or if we could have been,
still considering ways I could have handled the situation
a little better.
That’s all I’ve ever aimed for,
and it seems to echo through everything I do,
cling to the fringes of everything I lose,
memories littered with could and should and you.
This bar smells like burnt cherry cough drops, my glass is sweaty,
and the cheap promo coasters are well overdue for replacement.
There is a woman screaming at the television,
a man screaming on it,
a pint was just dropped behind the counter,
and despite every distraction my mind
drags me back to your absence.
I can’t explain it.
Smoke is creeping in between leaky stain glass panes,
crawling out from the begrudging lungs
of civic duty chauvinists guarding the stoop,
into the pub and settling around my ankles.
It makes my skin itch.
All of it.

 

Dedicated to Bernie.

 

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