the girl that got away

like old cars

rusting in the yard, up
on blocks,

homes for pigeons
and bees.

the men sit
on their porch swings,

and sip from their
brown paper bags of
brown whiskey.

long island tea.
they talk longingly of

some long forgotten dream.
the factory.

the rail road yard.
the roads not taken.

there's always a girl
that got away.

a dollar lost a dollar made.
the stories

are long about
the big fish almost caught.

the gamble.
the roll of the dice,
the wheel spinning,

putting it all down,
the time when they lost.

a fight won in some bar
in Chicago,

or was it Philly?

the bugs die in the purple
light of the porch.

police cars roll by,
but there's no trouble here
now.

none at all, not anymore.