Bunker White

It’s just one of those

Sunday afternoons

you learn to

adjust to

when in your mid-20’s…

You’re not committed,

and it’s nothing serious…

so why not?

It’s just flesh.

Denim stretched.

Cotton unbuttoned.

The generic sighs and gasps,

almost routine in these ,

“ mad-cap mis-adventures.”

Winter’s skin growing tough,

calloused and raw…

another night fighting against

an empty bed when you’re already too

far gone to acknowledge any company.

Accompaniment is awkward.

Sunday morning solitary sojourns,

still high off the night and

hiding from the sunlight is common.

We’re comfortable enough to do this.

It’s just friends helping out friends;

hesitant, yet yielding our need

to reach out

to the wrong people,

especially when imbibed.