i don't want to go home

you can remember
exactly
the words that
someone spoke
one night in
a bar at three
in the morning
a.m. in nineteen
eighty seven.
down to the pause
the inflection,
and your reply
as you took a sip
of beer from
a miller lite
bottle.
you can still
hear the music
playing, south side
johnny and the Asbury
jukes, i don't
want to go home,
you remember
the girl in the blue
dress that you
were staring
at for most
of the night,
trying to get
your nerve up
to say something
intriguing to her
like hello, you
remember the shoes
you were wearing.
the torn jeans,
the button down
shirt, missing
buttons. you
can remember so
much,
but you can't
find your car
keys that you set
down an hour
ago.