Those old days
I would sit in my apartment and get drunk
Listening to Bob Dylan,
Vinyl bootleg records that cost $20 back then
Long before YouTube offered them for free <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I would look down on the street
And stroke a beard bedraggled,
Light and dark brown, reddish and golden all through. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I would think about the woman I loved or thought I loved
Or wonder about the woman I might be destined to love <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I would put the electric typewriter on my lap
And type poem after poem about her,
Whoever she was that night <\/p>\n\n\n\n
While the keys crisply echoed and clacked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now in the new days
I sit in my apartment and get drunk
Surrounded by the specters of those I have abandoned
Or who have abandoned me
And listen to hours of music at little or no cost
Admitting that maybe somehow it feels less earned this way. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I look out at the street,
Stroking a beard fuller but less florid,
The white overcoming in patches like crabgrass, <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thinking about a woman but with less expectation,
The chains of the specters rattling in my ears
While I sit at this keyboard punching keys that are silent <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But not silenced. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"