10 Years In A Barrel

I walk by my old grade school about every other day. I walk through the park where we played football, where my friend was Dan Marino and I was Steve Largent and I caught bombs from him all day long. It was here, where by 6th grade us boys were terrorizing them girls but also learning to slowly caress them then finally bragging about  how we made out with them.

The whiskey is Eagle Rare bourbon and it rests in oak barrels for a decade before bottles of it are carefully filled and 10 years never meant that much until this very moment as I’m writing this. My best friend jumped into a night-time skyline 10 years ago today so now I toast his soul, for as I sit alone, I’m never without him.

My schoolyard, my friend, my booze.

It’s true how when they keenly abuse

their chemicals and bodies soon

resign and refuse

to be something other than someone we lose.

In a post script, Niagara Falls is where barrels, nuptials and suicides coincide like a car crash amidst a holiday parade or a cruise liner sinking in a beautiful tropical bay.

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