Pub
No wind whipping
through my wings;
Liquid in great draughts
of booze; no rain.
Community; a sense of proper
placement; not the
milling unentered rabble.
Conversations of football,
birds, work and beer.
Individuals stricken with
'stranger; ' our mothers'
warned us.
4.27.2006
poem by Thomas Raguar
Added by Poetry Lover
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