Last Friday Night in this old house <br />9 years after it all started for me <br />back then when I was out of the <br />old neighborhood and into this place <br />with a back yard and a fence <br />so far away from long ago faces <br />lost inside a faded time that never comes back <br />but only in remnants found upon words <br />written from memory and night flowers <br />singing for rain for those that remain. <br />It is the last minutes of the last Friday <br />in this old house in Oak Park <br />a place just outside of Chicago <br />the place where Hemingway found his voice <br />and where I still seek mine <br />inside this house that has let me go <br />so I write or type as many would say <br />and listen to Zepplin sing out No Quarter <br />just as I did when fat dreams came in bulk <br />and living was sitting pretty showing <br />red red orange sunsets painting the skies <br />of what use to be rented but never did owned. <br />Stillness paces from room to room <br />the fireplace is off waiting for the next owners <br />to bring it back to burn into those nights <br />when silver moons turn cold and <br />dogs forgot to howl over the passing el <br />speeding towards the city just as it happened <br />9 years ago when I was up and awake <br />just as I am now on the last Friday in this house <br />blowing smoke rings over words whispering <br />insanities full of so much reason.<br /><br />Charles Lara<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-friday-night/
