three darts for a dollar

must be Friday again
there’s your ghost
sitting in the corner
telling jokes

inspired by waves and sand
and three seasons of greenery
that lie to us
that winter will not come

go ahead, pile it on
but it won’t do no good
your charming smile
all the poses
dusty shoes tell tales

all our Fridays memories
we are in too deep
the pleasing pints of new
we have swept into a pile
to be compacted
into a sterile cube

let’s have a smoke on it
and drink another down
to the good times we can’t have back
and won’t try
and won’t buy
another three chances

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