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Array
(
[sid] => 180039
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Move-Out Day
[time] => 2014-12-15 20:50:11
[hometext] => Written from a place you've never heard of, 1800 miles away.
[bodytext] => Through voices screaming Boys of Summer We share the grin Of the puppet master. The porch is throbbing, Your shirt’s unbuttoned And there’s slurred conversations In German and Russian So the puppets can’t pick up on Condescending implications. With Maker’s Mark in hand And vodka on the breath We escape for midnight walks, Avoiding loneliness, With a vague plan To extend The dizzy madness Into sunrise talks. Wide-eyed girls hear voices Through the walls And make choices that involve You and that false sense of Stability you deliver During nights you don’t remember. I stare at your protein shake, Smirking in a silence That the kids mistake For an awkward encounter. But I’m stifling my laughter, Which is tough to master With your gleaming eyes Tracing my figure Against the kitchen counter. I remember when that glimmer In your smile ran shallow – The day you discovered Your best friend’s not a hero. Spinning walls and blurry shapes. Drunken strength. Mindless body. But all things considered, You could have said no for me. Sure, I’ll help you pack your v-necks Into garbage bags Next to modest price tags On the polos your mom selected Before your girlfriend’s expected To come out. If she asks about your night At least there’s nothing to lie about This time around. Fingers dance on wooden keys Through the floorboards. The sound of that E-chord Isn’t going to leave Your bones When you’re on the road To European cities. But it will be easier there Than staring at the bare Front curb, out of place Without a sleek black car And Ohio plate. I could have put the bottle down The night we sang Wagon Wheel But the excitement was too surreal For a clear mind to comprehend. So we carry on drinking to feel Until move-out day – A stone sober end To the puppet brigade. Thick air. Matted hair To foreheads creased with thought, Piecing together the weeks we forgot. You look so good Shirtless and distraught In a room lined with pain, Breathing in sequence With the rhythm of the summer rain. On the staircase Where the first look was exchanged Is where our fading impulses hang. Through voices screaming Boys of Summer We share the grin Of the puppet master. Knotted string nests tangled hearts That crave to be resolved. With dirty hands And solemn pride We take a bow, the curtain falls. 10.16.14 [comments] => 1 [counter] => 148 [topic] => 52 [informant] => drapes [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => goodbyepoetry )
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