Confession 509

This street.
        This place.
                Those stories.
Before I knew where I am,
I stood a stones throw
from here on the corner
when my buddy went into the
beer distributor to buy cases of
Coors Light to carry back to
his place just a block from where
I now work full time.

         The world is small.
True, but those who see it
              know better.

We’re all the sons of Noah.
Who lived 950 years.
May we all be so lucky.

Sittin here, I look straight up
into a lamp post I have
seen, personally, be struck
by lightning before this
was my place of residence
from almost this exact seat
                on this porch, before it
was mine, on one of
        the few dates I can say
I completed Super Mario
long before I could have
imagined this would
be my seat here now.
This holds only sentimental value.

If you don’t know me personally,
my writing wont mean shit to you.
All streetlamps and generic names,
locations in towns you wont
ever visit. If you’ve never
seen a dumpster fire set
off by a friend on a night
of pure celebration, no.
If you’ve strayed away 
from a home base, a safe 
zone, a familiar face, no.
If you’ve ever gotten cold
sitting outside but never
went back in to find a jacket,
If you’ve never sat on your
porch and stared at
the place of first encounter,
If you never felt it
in yourself to stay
inside yourself and
still thought that was
enough, no, because
you know better
and you’re out there
somewhere, not here
stuck staring down another
year of horrible
rhythm and a game
you can’t give into.
But I swear,
I’ll meet you out there.

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