Passing the bottle without sipping,
Sobering the other side of drunk.
Deserted by the smoke run,
Going easy on the blunt,
Bonfire dying down.
Feet in sand,
Heads on laps,
Some on shoulders, chests,
Arms wrapped around,
Sitting between legs,
Listening to the great soloist,
Not as the gluttonous rock star,
But as the church choir singer that came before.
Mellowed by the high,
At his purest,
Backed only by the sea and his guitar.
BAD GIRLS AND THE MUSICIANS WHO LOVED THEM