Past strip malls,
past palm trees,
out past
a crumbling cemetery,
we pull into
this oil stained driveway.
The door opens;
cockroaches scatter
across the carpet.
A television blasts
music videos
in the corner.
We call up girls;
no one answers.
We drink until
3 a.m.
and listen to
Eddie Cochran
on a cheap
plastic stereo.
We talk like maniacs
about things
we'll never do.
Outside,
in another town,
something big
is happening.
I can just
feel it.
I close my eyes
and let the vodka
sink
way down
inside.
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