rose & thistle

small glass,
sugar,
citrus,
liquor,
ignition,
she said it was the first hot drink of the season,
apologizing profusely as i was, it warmed my belly well,
and slow to consume it, for the bottom means a staggering wait for the six months pissing rains to end,
the clear shown table though holds another cold dark fit,
she could not see in my tired face, the fear growing for the appearance of clean wood grain,
too many others,
long last the reasons for long faces,
glasses,
a smile,
money changing more than hands,
expectations,
air scented a trailer home's perfume,
too much to remember in one sunday,
without the gloss of oak bar room snare, her visage read equivalent,
a brilliant woman,
a couch,
some yarn,
a circular saw,
the memory of deceased k9,
neither wanting to admit the growing taste, tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches,
drink gently,
relax as long as you like,
rest a weary sense of longing to release this annual letdown,
a feeling a kind to the first nail through such tender groomed modern feet,
this is why we love it