a conversation by the fireplace
while drinking chamomile tea
bought 4 years prior for just such an occasion,
then pushed back, further back,
into the pantry until it was forgotten,
dust settled haphazardly on each tea bag,
but it washed out all the same,
tasted all the same,
maybe a little malty, but what is a little staleness
among friends sharing tea
cerebral backseat thoughts
trying to drive me off the road,
possibly to discover new terrain,
though also possibly to just see me crash and burn,
left maimed in the middle of nowhere
with strange fauna nipping at my exposed ankles
so i can’t walk down the hill
and find help in the open meadow
there’s a skinny kid in me that
stays up all night
listening to the velvet underground
while hammering back monster energy drink
and chain smoking clove cigarettes
while attempting to speak french
with the exchange student that makes drinking red wine
look like a performance art piece,
but someone came along and shaved that skinny kid’s head
and left him scarred with cigarette marks
all up and down his arms and legs
Fred Aiken Writing 