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This one time I spent Thanksgiving in a strange place |
Those days were the strangest Klonopin haze, sucking down Unfiltered cigarettes and bad grass And cheap vodka without reason It sure was a sight to see, some time later Surveying the aftermath, hands trembling in the wake of absence Divine morning ritual Pants down, a little prick, nap through until lunchtime Only damn bit of good they did me; Ativan at 6 A.M. I picked through scattered heaps to find my bed, reminiscing Of the thrift store bathrobe that had kept me warm as I Stumbled through that one last crescendo of a week And reminding me of the one I had in Georgia, just after, in That dream, felt like I was asleep for a month Awake only sometimes briefly at their whim, or like For Thanksgiving dinner there, seated, in communion By Ed; he drank from two milk cartons and spoke in a warm mutter Or when the muffled speaker by the bed announced That it was time for outdoor activities; We huddled down in that little shelter out of the fog She, thirty something, crows feet Still young, squashed up against time; We crossed our legs and worried about the same things and smoked menthols in droves like The flowers my mother and I used to gather And flatten in books to save until we forgot them As small surprises for later |