I believe in you, currently earthbound,
creating in mud, and flour, and cardboard, and rust.

I believe it was you, over weak margaritas at Applebee’s, Good Lord,
who first conceived of our road trip in that Plymouth minivan,
burned through the Virginia mountains,
suffered when the transmission washed its hands of us,
screamed at me when I said the broken mix tape should be reverentially buried;
and stumbled into the Waffle House, dead to the world.
We stayed in that little town for three days
West Virginia, right?  Almost.
It’s hard to remember all the details from where you and I sit these days,
Like Springsteen said in “Atlantic City.”  Everything is like that, kid.

I believe that the serendipity that led us there
is a universal experience,
Everybody has a group of friends who get together,
and share old stories,
feeling the moment repeat itself deep in your bones,
and the life everlasting. Amen.


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