by March 1, 2014 0 comments

We were the last
of the Friday night owls,
our young band
when we wet met to jam
in the Big Apple
on city streets passing us
with intersecting signals
in a once red light district
our parents called it,
like dances of the 80’s
now forgotten,
we take a ride
on a stolen Harley
and abruptly cut out
with every nightfall excuse
of always being late,
now we’re moving sidewise
blinded by new construction
in a rush of city traffic
prepared against us
outside a downtown club
that has legendary jazz
with a run for my life
along tinted bar
and gig soundings,
suddenly flakes of snow
appear on my pea jacket
knowing the raw reality
of another dead cold storm
will not change my fate
in tempests of traffic
on weary alleyways,
yet you went with me
even as I told you
I’m still pledged to a chip
on my dark shoulder
always wishing to recapture
back my energy
from bygone strangers
even those who heat up
the atmosphere
in boiling altercations,affairs
on this familiar road
which separates us
from my own blame games,
you were always there,
even when we bombed.

editors note:

Yes, those are the best ones; who stay even when we bomb. Nice one, BZ! – mh

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