as long as we have to

hypnosis; cirrhosis
dreams of cicada shells
and the baseball bats
we hit them with

that cracked like
the brittle leaves
under our feet

or the sidewalk’s demarcations
that threatened to break
our mother’s backs
if we were to tread on them
like we tread in the pool
that’s been empty
since summer gave up on us

as the sun does every day
but begrudgingly rises again
to give us another shot
at glowing in valor,
and not the pallor
of indoor existence

compromised by sign-on-the-lines
and that boring bureaucracy
looming in that post-grad world
we drink to forget about
in crowded bars and halter tops,
our arms around someone
we’ll love as long as we have to.