We were so furious.
So fueled with youth and liquor.
Drunk on poetry and stupid girls.
High on algren and hank.
positive of our success,
free of a work ethic,
free of introspection,
so sure that our art was unavoidable,
that the reservoir,
couldn’t be drained,
that we went to that well for everything.
Exhausted ourselves pounding dashboards,
as we rushed through the chicago night.
Wasted our light,
on being wasted.
Now the well is dry , and the bird of youth,
is a yardbird scrabbling in the dirt.