The Bay

Late at night and
Swerving around
In a car
Looking to capture
Trying to capture
That youth
Pulls into a bodega
For a Negro Modelo
And chips
And swilling it from a paper bag down by the bay
Sandwiched between
The stars and the crickets
“I’ve got out of tune violins to play my pity party, and mistakes as plentiful as stars, and still I’ve not done anything, and now I’m too tired to even wait”

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