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kyle-kulsethPoems
9:13 p.m. on Wednesday sitting, bolted to this bar, next to tired tropes and worn out jokes I've met a million times or more. And the drinks all swirl together and they start to taste the same                going down                or coming up.           It really doesn't matter much. If the streets looked any different, they'd still bear familiar names: trees and states and Presidents-- Left turn, snowfall, sitting fences,                walking home and getting old. These towns all look alike, with weeks spent walking                 in the cold. And the salt on the sidewalks might season your footsteps--                                        sure-- a steady, frigid cadence carried through like a threat: shallow and petty, from downtown to home. Alone on the sidewalk,                it's 7 below. And I don't know                what that is in Celsius, but I know there's no home                               for at least                another block or 2. I came clean in muddy puddles, ***** slush and snowbound streets,      in towns that looked alike. Tonight, I'm headed for clean sheets. So close the doors, unbolt the patrons           Thursday morning, 2 a.m. And it never feels like half an answer when I push my front door                                                 shut again.
0
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
Continued
9:13 p.m. on Wednesday sitting, bolted to this bar, next to tired tropes and worn out jokes I've met a million times or more. And the drinks all swirl together and they start to taste the same                going down                or coming up.           It really doesn't matter much. If the streets looked any different, they'd still bear familiar names: trees and states and Presidents-- Left turn, snowfall, sitting fences,                walking home and getting old. These towns all look alike, with weeks spent walking                 in the cold. And the salt on the sidewalks might season your footsteps--                                        sure-- a steady, frigid cadence carried through like a threat: shallow and petty, from downtown to home. Alone on the sidewalk,                it's 7 below. And I don't know                what that is in Celsius, but I know there's no home                               for at least                another block or 2. I came clean in muddy puddles, ***** slush and snowbound streets,      in towns that looked alike. Tonight, I'm headed for clean sheets. So close the doors, unbolt the patrons           Thursday morning, 2 a.m. And it never feels like half an answer when I push my front door                                                 shut again.
#trees#drink#same#boredom#bars#streets#stagnation#towns#presidents
kyle-kulseth
Written by
kyle-kulseth
M/American
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
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