FLANNEL-LINED JEANS
The bridge down the end of my
block was never much. I could
take it on a dash, whether up
above, along Rt. One, or down
below, where it twisted and turned
at the railroad lanes. Junkyards all
around, and a small field nearby.
We'd play some vicious football
there, until somebody died. Or so
it felt. The only things that died
were dreams, really. Those Squillace
brothers were something else, and
we all had a bound and a reason
for every step.
-
It's a rambling world that gives no
oasis; we step in muck and muck
has us. By the time we're done, it's
done too. A fiery finish to a lethal
crash, or a bland nothing else, as
we breath our last. Man, how I
hated those flannel-lined jeans.
We called them dungarees, back
then, and thinking back, how it
all seems like we never took them
off at all.
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