Little river of your cocaine past
crooked trees with its cold branches
hiding the moonlight
of the infinite
clouds and conversation and that
“I never walk and talk with friends” comment
scuffing shoes on muddy sidewalks
hoping it stains
so you have something
to remember me by
you remembered you wrote songs about california before you lived there
and fuck
does that make you a poser?
you kiss your own ink-stained fingers
at least
you made something today
rising above the darkness of that old neighborhood you used to
to live in
but now it’s kind of charming
like an old ’91 toyota
while zooming down the road wearing flannel
listening to the counting crows
you were beautiful and carefree like a
sunday afternoon
and the more and more you live in blue skies
the more you love the grey ones
and again you kiss your ink-stained fingers
and blow away the clouds

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