Maybe it was mountains
Instead we drank our way to something
Of bravado
Feats of intoxication
And instafame

Telling stories we’d lived
We thought they couldn’t be lived again
And so we stepped into our late 20’s
Hearing mirroring stories form our
Middle aged colleagues

When I stepped into a poetry class
I thought I had an edge
That i’d lived
That the love I’d lost was real enough
To be worth something

This was before Bukowski,
McCourt, Hamill

I have nothing unique to say
But still I say it
Because it finds its way out
Eventually