I used to be a poet. I could be one again.

Moonlight over Milwaukee River
(apologies to Easy Fagela)

Negotiating the last call for alcohol past 2 a.m.,
Post-drunken ramblings in a bar in Riverwest
I take your hand, tucked into a jacket, through a walkway
Of latent shrubs and marked up fences
Until we face an opening above the city,
A full moon cracking the skyline open like an egg.
Buildings short and long, stopping and starting
in streets that begin and end on Water.
In this hour, only cars and headlights are moving
Drunks are falling down evenly on their beds
Drug dealers thumping out fading beats as
Police cars patrol the streets into an illusion of safety.
If we could get into your car and drive west to the ocean
Morning would find us welcomed by freeways to Santa Monica
The sun beating down bright onto our faces
While we wiggle our toes into the heat of the sand
All to the tune of a pop-punk cliche.
Maybe if I tell you all this you’d come with me.
A truck pushes inches of snow to the side of the road.
There are mountains of white to clamber over
One might lead another to Los Angeles.