I like to make these posts a mixture of new and old poems, but I don’t usually reach back quite this far. This one is from ten years ago and is presented with no editing worth mentioning.
all these years the shadow has been dancing in front of me, wandering back and forth unsteadily - me, always a few steps too far behind to properly see or understand what was happening. and now, in this room with the windows open to the sounds of a pleasantly cool July evening, the pieces all drop into their proper places and it all just makes sense. typing out my pain in the swamps down south, perspiration more prevalent than inspiration, and beer leading 3-to-1 over either at any given moment. the days of scrawling words into composition books during high school and college lunch breaks. the in-between times when I was unlucky enough to be in love and foolish. it’s all been some marvelously cruel adventure that, at least at this moment, I wouldn’t trade for any amount of money or anyone else’s story.