five years later

seventeen and feeling old
life-weary already   all night-time
journal scrawls in coil scribblers
driving my mother's sedan around
quiet suburbs in the rain at three a.m.
playing tragically hip on repeat
wanting to smoke cigarettes even though
i never had before   no reason to crave it
except to accompany the mood
i spent so many angsty nights cultivating

now i'm standing on street corners
smelling gutter-rain and distant lilacs
at one in the morning feeling old
and young   simultaneously   a peculiar ailment
and i never did smoke any cigarettes
instead i share beers with new friends
and walk back to my own house   the key
in my own lock   go to bed with the windows open
the sounds of distant sirens   and the smell
of a faraway mayday tree bringing me back home