stretched out in the grass by the pavement,
surrounded by the ones that we love
while the sun goes down and
we’re still hell-bent on finding sunshine smiles
in blacktop chalked illustrations and
cleverly phrased turns in neon… and the whole world is paisley!
As the sun falls and the moon rises, we swill cold quarts of ale by the ocean.
I sit by the fire, tiredly strumming my ukulele and singing in time with the ocean as it rushes up the beach before it rushes back out to sea as fast as it came in.
“…Here we are- there’s no one else
and we walked to school all by ourselves…”
These are liminal times; nostalgia greeting reality, with reticent aplomb.
We take aggressive sips of well-appointed ale and
It tastes like hops and hopscotch.