And the drunks are stumbling
into each other
As they leave the bars.
I slouch in my trusty chair,
Legs up against my loyal desk
With my journals and books
And poems of long dead friends.
These early hours
Have become so dear to me
Through the years.
Reading hungrily
Whatever poems I could find
Clinging to the words like oxygen,
Clinging to them
The way some cling to drink
Or flesh
Or vanity.
Falling in love with Rapa Nui
As though it were a woman.
Driving myself mad
Long into the darkness
Where Chinaski drinks and listens to Mozart,
And fills his floor with crumpled paper.
All those tear stained pages.
All those nights of staring out at the highway
Pondering the futility and purpose
Of all those unknown headlights.
We’ve come a long way
These books and I.
These nights have grown close
Like lovers do.
Secret words and smiles and tastes.
From the cheerie sweetness of Oliver
To the bleak heartbreak of Marichiko,
I am all of them,
And they are now a part of me.
On the nights
When the ink won’t flow
And the bindings won’t bend,
We float together silently
On the highs and lows of melody.
Sometimes waiting painfully for the dawn
Other times waiting
In a subtle warm peace,
For the grace that is sleep.


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