Maybe I promised you something I couldn’t deliver,
driving over the roads I knew so well.
I was 18 maybe 19 and Salem Road tunneled through the trees
all the way to the river.
Great maples leaves and Indian cigars hung down like a bad haircut,
bangs sticking in my eyes.
I could see parts of the sky and drove too fast curving this way and that
until the Kellogg on ramp where the marinas parked boats
and bottles of bourbon at Annie’s joint.
Maybe I promised you I’d be better
then a coffee cup filled with booze and fake tattoos
at 2 am, last call closing down the place
waiting for someone to walk me to my car
waiting for someone to drive me home
take my keys