Others slept.
We sat with a bottle
At the kitchen table

The way men do
Who deserve to
Talk.

Outside, the embers of
The dying bonfire
Flung sparks

Into the dark, and as
Men that need to cry
So very often

Don't, the night, the woods
And the cabin kitchen
Formed a tear

Just our size. In which
We sat. And sometimes
Spoke a

Little.