This girl I met . . .

This girl I met . . .

I write this in twilight season beyond reasons

of why I've come to this place – on a barstool,

balanced on the mouth of a scotch bottle

and the sadness that was yesterdays.

Here we are all grown up like

we thought maybe we could be

– you seen a happy face lately?

I saw yours not too long past

and now I smile.

Religion is not redemption:

faces and the scents of familiar skins

are redemption; and here I am redeeming myself again

in the memories of you and us and sunny suns and

snowy climbs to youthful fancies; and basement embraces, in circles of smoke,

while Weller sang broken ballads in perfect disharmony.

Can I buy you a drink? Can I share my redemption?

Can I bring you a smile for my resurrection . . .