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.
