Poet sits there, glassy eyes and parted lips,
smoke rising through the lamplights.
The music blurs, slows and whines
and whistles and her shoes
are two paperweights too heavy.
Poet loses two hours.
Poet trying to find the right words
at the bottom of a wineglass.
Poet wants to say something new
about change—not resolution,
not gym memberships, not a better me,
but something her brain
is too tired to pronounce.
Poet doesn’t write clichés.
Poet becomes cliché.
She slips back into the decaying couch;
vows they’ll die together.
Schuyler Peck, POET MISSES THE NEW YEAR (12/30 an event in third person)
Magic moments timeless, the 70′s on albums, 8 tracks and cassettes so naive, or was it only innocence our hair worn long with few regrets surfing, assured we’d live forever good friends, old cars and weed possessing little save for freedom what more could we possibly need pretty girls and parties at the beach not yet blinded by the world’s ways rebels with neither a clue nor cause indeed they were the good old days