from the same old seat
shivers a tall glass bottle with just
a little bit of white wine left hugging the walls and
melting my insides, inside-out;
what a waste it is, to recall with
utmost confidence the times of days gone by,
and bygone the times for all intents and purposes.
but here we sit, wet-fingertipped with lips against the glass
we hold to our mouths as we bear the grand procession of orderly events
it bleeds away from daydreams stretching out back decades since
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