music and laughter

it's a cold stripe
of a winter
sun
that melts
on the ridges of houses
and buildings,
old factories now dead,
or about to succumb.
there seems to
be no rest, or forgiveness
in this
kind of weather.
with holes in my boots,
I feel the wet pavement
as I walk the last mile
from the gate
to the tavern.
there will be music
and laughter.
for a moment we'll
forget everything that is
true.