June 4, 2017
although it should be June 3 still Jackie, isn’t that your name? From drum class? Did I misunderstand? You look as if I intrude— paying bar tab, a moment stretched into a universe a lonely bar in Lexington, playing Grateful Dead re-memory the curly-haired dude with his arm around her. Your breath smells sour— yet, finally at home at the corner of a bar universe found in lights stamped into poured concrete bar, poured shots of whiskey, poured into our ride. You cannot find your way. I nudge you, Jackie. Jackie. Left or right? You poured yourself out. Thanks, guys. You wave. Like we are a ride. Friends. Not the strangers who shared our ride. And I wonder. What if it wasn’t us? How many other rides home? Lost. Four white paper bar napkins scrawled in ink from a plastic pen found somehow from bottom of my back pack the one I take to real shows, not just to a bar in town to see a local band.
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Jackie is like a ghost who lives invented by a trip
For me, the prose poem fully expands on the moment: “You wave. Like we are a ride. Friends.”