PUNK POETRY: Moments by Bill Weld

I’m drinking Southern Comfort

New Orleans style whiskey

with a slice of lime.

I’ve had a half a pint, along with an

unclear number of beers. We’re at Rachel’s apartment.

She teaches middle school chorus

and hopes we get along with her new boyfriend.

He had the idea to add a lime to my drink

so we’re getting along quite well

It’s late now, and Rachel is going to bed.

She tells you, you’re free to take the guest bed

and tells me I seem comfortable on the couch.

And as you get up there is a moment

just a moment

where you look back, and we see each other

for the first time in a very long time.

So often when I am asked who I am

I respond with a name, a social security number, a current address

(with either utility bill or signed lease as proof of residence).

But if you ask me who I am, if you really asked me

I would say I am these moments.

These innumerable moments

that can move the earth beneath our feet

yet are forgotten so easily,

in their hundreds and thousands.

And so many of them

shared by us.

So many we made together.

And now I am to believe

that they amount to nothing.

That you were just a high school sweetheart.

That it was all just practice

for someone else.

For “the one”. That looming precipice

that we are all hurtling towards.

Or perhaps running from.

It’s hard to say.

It’s hard to know what to say.

So what I say is.

Goodnight Kelly. 

--Bill Weld