As the last of the light lingers on the rim
The suitors of the sunshine scuttle meekly to their chambers
To the dark through the dusk the day turns dim
And our colour inside also changes

A wonder creeps in through the cracks
On those resolved, unmoved to cower
Under threats of falling thermostats
To brave the cold unfolding hours

So picnic blankets turn to cloaks
Sweatshirt sleeves stretch into mittens
Pupils widen, night invokes
Its fading light and failing vision

Till little things, so long unmentioned
Surface gently and unbidden
With neither motive nor pretension
For we had never kept them hidden

In hushed-er tones we speak unburdened
With bottles clung to, glasses cuddled
Unrushed, alone, no songs, nor sermons
Around imagined fires huddled

Till parts of you you didn’t know of
Which dwelt in secret stores you hadn’t
Gotten round to letting go of
Raise their heads with spirits gladdened

Drinking in the dying light
Refusing blankly to retire
To brighter corners of the night
Where creature comforts can’t inspire

Sure, inside those windows there are bars and bolts and buttons
Where warm within their walls, they shelter sheathed in their shutters
While here your clumsy fingers tremble clinging to your glasses
Faces fade to traces, trading places, making passes

The grass beneath our feet turns wet in seeming seconds
As we grow longing of the past, a closer quarter beckons
The mystery of memory carves forests out of husks
No daylight can reflect the reflectiveness of dusk

Yes, here is where it happens, by the river, in the garden
Where empathy can flourish, where memories unburden
With crumpled cans around us, the silent moments dangle
No fostered fears nor worries with which we have to wrangle

Just barely chuckled laughter from the corners of our hearts
Though we shiver as we rise, we are warmer as we part
And fairly buckled after we will stumble to our beds
What was learnt will be forgotten as once we lay our heads


2 Responses to “Cans”

  1. theunrecordedman Says:

    I like it a lot, both the subject matter and how you covered the whole drinking and talking with friends in a romantic glow. I remember once seeing an advert for some posh whiskey. The viewer was outside the gravelly path of some old castle-type building and soft orange lighting, perhaps from a fire, emanated from the leaded windows. I wanted to be inside drinking with them, warm and slowly getting drunk with friends. That’s how this poem made me feel.

    One question: why do you alter the rhythm so drastically?

    • thedropofahat Says:

      It is definitely an ode and a glorification of the self-destruction of booze. Somehow it never seems quite as cold as it was once the evenings is safely locked away in the warm glow of memory. I changed the rhythm in the middle, in an attempt to make those middle verses sound like someone talking, as opposed to someone reciting verse. I wanted it to sound like someone rousing up the troops. So that the drunken audience can raise their tankards in goodwill and courage. I wanted to change its momentum, basically. Not sure that it worked though.

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