Sittin' in the dark listening to bluegrass songs about walt whitman and coalmines
(that's not a facebook post that's a poem).
how I never figured you out,
figured you out so early,
in the coalmines of those bars and restaraunts,
you can't go back there
you won't go back,
you sit on a borrowed couch
in the back of your mother's house
and beg for beer.
yet I knew so well.
Out West they might still sing your name
from time to time
from that one time,
but who knows?
You've got to just
Life is hard,
back breakingly hard,
but you're back isn't all that broken,
you'd just rather sit-
never to go back it would seem
to that coalmine of a Soulard pub
now, looking for that ultimate free-ride
that'll never really come.