No one Knows one
A Saturday night.
There's lots to do tonight,
and i'm here,
at a church,
sitting, not waiting,
having a beer and my last cigarette.
i wish i had another.
i wonder where i should go tonight.
Here's a bench that's dedicated
to the memory of lucinda woodward.
It's the kind of bench that can be dedicated
two trains pass, and i hear the rumble of the rails.
it is moving. going some where.
i sit and sip my longneck bottle; sit and sip.
noise is louder, rushing me to leave
but i'm sitting
on a bench
to the memory of