We lay in the park,
Backs against dry grass,
Pointy edges pushing through our shirts,
Slightly stinging our sweaty backs.
We’re stoned, elated,
Floating over our bodies powered by laughter,
We are bold, chins pointed toward the sun,
As its rays burn deep into our pores.
We face each other, half grinning,
Half lost in each other’s eyes,
Sounds of city buses vibrate in the ground,
Our hands carry the ringlets of sound into our arms.
We hold hands and close our eyes,
He sings softly into my ear, “Here come old flattop….he come….”
I listen, expanding into a circling pool of color,
Yellow, orange, royal purple, cerulean, sweet baby girl pink.
We begin with light whispers to sing in unison,
“One thing I can tell you is you got to be free….” and we are…..
We are free in blades that stick into our backs,
And suns that shine in our face,
And voices that will sing and sing and sing.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 