Last Friday Night in this old house
9 years after it all started for me
back then when I was out of the
old neighborhood and into this place
with a back yard and a fence
so far away from long ago faces
lost inside a faded time that never comes back
but only in remnants found upon words
written from memory and night flowers
singing for rain for those that remain.
It is the last minutes of the last Friday
in this old house in Oak Park
a place just outside of Chicago
the place where Hemingway found his voice
and where I still seek mine
inside this house that has let me go
so I write or type as many would say
and listen to Zepplin sing out No Quarter
just as I did when fat dreams came in bulk
and living was sitting pretty showing
red red orange sunsets painting the skies
of what use to be rented but never did owned.
Stillness paces from room to room
the fireplace is off waiting for the next owners
to bring it back to burn into those nights
when silver moons turn cold and
dogs forgot to howl over the passing el
speeding towards the city just as it happened
9 years ago when I was up and awake
just as I am now on the last Friday in this house
blowing smoke rings over words whispering
insanities full of so much reason.

Charles Lara

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-friday-night/