and the art I made for his dad.
seeing Charlie aka icon303
aka Yugo Levchenko,
is a good escape.
his smiling poet face
is a distraction from my world,
the wide world, and all the doldrums
that run down the highway
like a median with an abutment
without reason for divide.
so very burnt out by bullshit,
just sitting on his couch
is a welcomed retreat
into conversation and drugs,
the ones I like and the ones
his roommate happens to have.
let the light in, pet the dog,
while Arkansas is on the tv,
and Matt offers me whiskey,
but I decline, because I have what I need.
tomorrow, we will publish icon303's book,
his second, and today, he hugs me,
gives me the art back, saying
"my dad won't know what to fucking do with this;
you keep it."
with happy heart smile,
and easy drugs, I leave,
and drive, feeling alive again
even just for a moment,
because my compatriot
let me sit on his old couch
and talk poetry without referencing
the goddamn world outside.
tomorrow said sad world will have
more poems floating around within it,
while today I am able to get through
on the simplest terms of found delectation.