Boys in white sneakers
are a sure sign things have changed.
Craft beers and button-ups,
additionally.

I want it to be black again,
all around me.
Boots and leather and
music for young anger to cut its teeth on.
Ancient cigarette smoke and dingy towels.
Warm whiskey burning an arrow down my throat.
Dipping my hips in close to
you handling me.
Realizing we are both drunk
enough to go home now,
to stop.

But as always
we look at the clock and find
ninety minutes that form a lemniscate.
That feeling where
time is not only a friend
but a co-conspirator.

It’s gone.
Along with you and I cannot think of a moment since
when I have thought,
oh thank god,
there’s still time.