I haven't written anything in several months... and poetry in even longer. But here's last nights endeavour. Forks scrape stoneware plates between splashes. White pants, grey shirt; a host from the 1970's. Furry slippers slide on faded linoleum. Left over potatoes from the veritable feast, shared between friends over herbed air; expanding conciousness beyond limits. The world carried on. In here too; with whiskey breath.
