The ground's still wet,
coating the fallen beer bottles
in a damp crystallization.
That yard, dirty yard,
torn up yard,
where dogs roam free,
spying on the neighbors
and cars all day,
is lined in cigarette butts,
most of them smoked
all the way,
and miscellaneous fruits
from that devilish sangria,
and other trash, waste,
horrors of this generation,
make the memory of last night
idle in the air,
hovering over our aching heads
and somehow still-beating hearts.

                                         I'd help clean up,
                                         but it's all so beautiful
                                                              and lost.

When the rain came,
it drew us all back
into that congested house
like pigs before slaughter.
Our bonfire, washed out,
but the warmth of the evening
continued on
in our laughter
and glorification
of what very well
might have been,
could have been,
should have been
our last night on earth.

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