The voices seem to roar
as a wave of angst
worries to be needle ridden highways
on a side turn on sanity
I wonder if beer can taste of saliva
or we simply kiss these bottles as if they are our lovers
and mishappens escapade and our tongues lie
like rogues and knaves reconnaissance of a time
where love was kept on a locket
in a locker of a suicide note
I wonder if smiles are a backyard gathering associated
with a time when bedtime kisses
didn't reek of alcohol
There is no preacher in the choir
and no smile on a dollar bill
so how many years do we spend
searching for things that aren't there?