a young troubadour,
slinging drinks
in Union Square
when she walked
in the door.
Our love rode
in on laundry songs,
made us both feel,
for a brief moment in time
like we had some place
in which we belong.
Fast forward a few years,
and that thing is long gone,
measured as memories
of the young and dumb,
but it was true love
as far as true love goes.
Sometimes I feel like
Billy the Kid,
still slinging guns,
but having less fun
than I was,
still trying to start a fire.