First person narrator writing about a moment in their life when they were incredibly happy. Tone is celebratory.
We would just sit round
seeking a pass from
the polished silhouette
of the scorching sun
under wooden beams
seamed together to create a stilted canopy
where we could rest
the long, globally warmed days.
Dominoes were slammed
onto low, wrought iron tables that were made
for paper plates of smoked brisket and red plastic cups of
and anything else besides tiny pieces of a dying game.
We would drink Shiner from a boundless keg
and some of us would get quieter
and some of us would get louder
and stories would flow tempting
to cross invisible moral lines of
little old ladies who drove big old Cadillac’s
who only pretended
to have invisible moral lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
The dark veils would slope down from the puppeteer in the sky
threatening to cut off our cords to freckled and coffee skin
but the jukebox sputtered on
of a bronchial angel and gently plucked guitar strings.
Johnny Cash they called him.
Ladies would grab their men
and men would be grabbed.
they would glide over
the concrete stage, lightly sprinkled with saw dust.
It was not until the sun rose
just as quickly as it had set ,
when our words trudged out harsh and armed
and our eyes began dropping and drooping
and cowering as the Oz in the sky
shot honed twinkles of light,
that we realized it was now gone.
The endless keg was stifled.
Legs drained of steps.
We touched the brims of our hats
as a graze of wind
we had known
whistled on by.
1 week ago