ran into an old friend today,
unexpected,
to be sure.
you see,
I was sure
he was long gone,
even hoped so, i guess
a dreamer,
this one,
that won’t ever
amount to nothing
cept whittlin clouds
into snowflakes.
I was out
in an old familiar
place, hummin an old
familiar tune, from
an old familiar time.
the wind was right
the season sure
the clouds asleep,
just right for dream carving.
dropped by, he did
as I was cutting wood
under these here clouds and
he winked in whisper
pockets packed
and I wiped my brow
to his knowing.
we agreed, a beer to share
on a stump carved
for ass cheeks
when January whistles boredom
God, it was good to see him,
though he’s such a fuck!
blows smoke out his ass
and calls it maple syrup!
a real piece of work,
this one.
we studied the clouds
and weighed em out
like butcher’s beef
along the ridge line
while our fingers numbed
cold to remembrance
and bitter barley brew.
we wondered
just how long those trees
have swayed
and if Yankee soldiers
ever silhouetted
the sky line
in no reason why.
I showed him the chicken coop
of simple family dreams
that were cashed in
for ten cents on the dollar
the murdered cedars
stripped bare and marched
down the hillside to a grape arbor
that never happened
and that garden
that April applauded
July killed
and August mocked
a killin field, all
in a country slum
only shangri la for
lazy coons and lost ambitions
he never asked
about the family,
mostly out of kindness
and detoured regret
instead,
we mostly reminisced.
of winters past,
summers that promised
but never were,
and autumns yet to come
and we never back slap
or laugh out loud,
but rather sideways glance
in a giving comfort.
he didn’t ask how I was
because
he knows what I am
and didn’t ask
what’s new, or hers past
knowing I never could
draw a winning hand
cept in solitaire
-and then only if I cheat.
but we did drink a beer,
pretending it was cold
and not the wind,
nor the season final
and that was enough.
we of tripped up dreams
and tangled ledger
resting upon trees in Mexico
like infertile butterflies
too vandal to fly a straight line
but a shrug, a beer
a broken ridge line
and an old friend
who couldn't spawn a maggot
on a pile of shit
cures today, hides tomorrows
and ignores a past
where I’ll pretend
not to look.
a toast then
to another year
another ten penny nail
in thread bare tires
on a beater
comin back from Cleveland
so too, then, a toast to him
and to clouds,
and to you,
and what might've been
Happy New Year
~rick
