there’s nothing quite so fine
as drinking prison wine
sitting on upturned milk crates
with an aging Boxer dog
and the best red-headed smartass
I’ve ever had the pleasure
of not completely falling for –
not like all those others
some lovers leave and others
you just can’t shake,
but none of that matters –
there’s comfort in the heft
of a good friend’s laughter
and forgetting in a bottle of rye
for those times when time
doesn’t go quite fast enough
and you can’t leave that burden behind
ebbtide 