we ate out of cans
we let the grass grow
we lived at the end of the street
we wrote earnest and pretentious poetry
we played records late
we painted on the backs of cardboard boxes
we drank on weeknights
we worked low-paying dead end jobs
we shared weed like it was significant
we romanticized the sixties
we were certain Reagan would blow up the world
we did not plan for retirement
we saw Muddy Waters at the blues festival
we did not want children
we saw Van at the Beacon
we did not want to go to jail
we saw Sun Ra in Miami
we trespassed in cow pastures after rain in summer
we swam naked in the creek
we paid attention to the colors of the evening sky
we slept on couches near glowing space heaters
we thought Lennon had a good idea
we took in strays
we did not have guns
we figured one thing out
how to make memories
that you’d want to bump to the head of the line
when they start flashing before your eyes
Bob Hudson will hurt you and make you like it. A charter member of the Gang of Bobs, he keeps the riffraff straight in Jackson, Miss.
Power. Light. Precision.
You hit that one into next week, slugger.
It’s gonna be one hell of a good season.
Yes. We did.
Yes, we did. Many times over. Great piece.