Sometimes when
I’m walking
in the old neighborhood with
my wife, my daughter, my son
and we pass by
all the sharp corners
and tight spaces
where daytime drunks
still gather,
no longer hidden by
the ornament
of night,
I remember
those years that
went down
like whiskey
and the beauty
of the B-side of
a hit single,
played over and over
on the juke box
in my favorite dive bar
until everyone
gets really annoyed,
lays down their mugs
their tumblers
their heavy shot glassess—
those sacred, precise
instruments of drinking–
as the smoky air
begins to feel liquid.
So glad
I made it out
into the open air,
so grateful
for solid blue
sky.
Copyright 2022 Jose Padua
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Today at the end of meditation, I watch the darkening sky, hope for rain, and feel grateful for poetry.
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Very fine!
I like the clarities that break into the poem like the sullen weather all weekend turned into this bright, unhindered Valentine’s Day, as if indeed there could be this kind of morning in February.
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Beautiful! Thank you Sean.
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