Bitter

I miss
shuckin' and
jivin' on
street corners,
2 a.m.,
and the bravado
that comes
with pin prick
highs and
self- destruction
cocktails.
I miss the
other-worldly
beauty, and the
out of focus
of being stoned.
The muted tones
and colors,
the edges
of everything
soft.
I miss the
romance
of a broken heart
with none of
it's pain.
I miss the whoop
of downtown
cruisers and
friendly cops
shouting move
along then
hanging out to talk
a minute, just
a couple of guys.
I miss
cowboy mornings
and steam rising
from a snow
covered bedroll
as I wake
near rivers edge
then hot/bitter
coffee and grits
with the rest
of the tramps
at the Sally.