reflects

I found an old poem the other day that I thought I'd lost forever.

Searching for the perfect yesterday

the brightest full
moon above while
leaning against the
windshield, drinking
whiskey, rummaging
the stars
and my cup

for a little more, or
a sunset:
prize of a brushy path
October blue
scars of sky
between pink paint
touch up clouds.
The rest of life

is withdrawal.
An addiction born
when I
a child in red
Pooh pajamas sat
warm against
my father's flannel
then he left
me a junkie.

I was going to post the progress I'd made with the smoking one, and may yet, but this one was easier to type. Take it light.