When we had nothing at home
but a beanbag,
The Farm
was our front room.
Tables polished thick and
velvet stools
settled round
bottle bottom windows.
The juke box hummed gently
with hop burr and smoke curls,
while we talked poetry,
laughing darkly at
our heavy minds.

We never imagined the rosy future
neither of us wanted.
All our sparkle
rose with the bubbles of
our brassy pints
at a little brown table.
Tobacco was
comfort in a soft foil packet.
Musky putty,
coiled to a moist lollipop stick,
just loose enough to draw well
but hold together
perfectly.