The liquor hits heavy
As Saturday night usually does
One lone soldier on the far end of the table
Mocking me in his bright red shirt
A single bullet dripping in my hand
The deafening blare of the underground
enhances the effects of intoxication
Blinking and Breathing,
Struggling and failing to break its grip.
A noise to my right causes me to turn
And notice the face beside me staring back at mine.
A reach into a backyard fire
countless rides and cigarettes, one particular
through the worst kind of blizzard
A spring time confession
A day under a bridge, spent letting go
A winter pact, the broken glass of a rolling rock bottle
Alone, far from home, a letter and a picture
Proudly hung from my locker wall
My hand upon it every morning, hope, somehow
A lyrics rings clear from the clammer
"Nobody wants to here another story about how you couldnt write, right?"
recognition, my partner in crime
Turning back to the cup,
Exhale.
The ball released fluidly-- sinks into the cup with a sound of satisfaction
How many "tables" have we stood at together?
I made that cup.
And I'll keep on making it, just as you've done so many times for me.