spring’s breath,
on my old wounds, flowers bud
branches lean
seeded clouds my roots shower
but the desiccate feeling lingers
thrusting me further into the ground
selfish love green green again
la mauvaise vie a ses charmes
under this new skin
the sap crystallizes
leaves fall
at the mercy of a season,
a soil, and
a sky too singular.

I don’t know what life you’re looking for
and I don’t care what you think of mine
but I’m happy splitting a bottle of scotch
in a basement on the South side
and making crude jokes and playing guitar
every other Friday.

Maybe that’s not the life you’re after
but it sure works fine for me.
Now grab a glass and find some ice,
you can’t go drinking scotch warm, you know?