I Don’t Miss Your Saturday Nights By Troy Schoultz

I don’t miss the straining voices growing louder

As hours crawl to morning.

I don’t miss broken glass on fractured sidewalks

And women walking on broken heels.

I don’t miss walking home, counting red taillights

Hoping later I’ll be able to locate my car.

I don’t miss waking in strange apartments

Looking at stranger’s faces on the wall.

I don’t miss the vicious Sundays

And outraged seagull eating from graffiti dumpsters.

I’ll tell you what I do kind of miss…

I miss not knowing death

Or the feel of a hospital bed.

I miss the sense of neon and lightbox possibility

And eyes meeting in the mirror behind the bar.

I miss throwing punches at tomorrow,

And falling in deep, frenzied love with werewolf moons.

I miss,

Sometimes

Most of all

I just miss.

TROY SCHOULTZ is a poet, analog collage artist, and apparently, a survivor. He is the author of three full-length collections and two chapbooks. He makes his home in Oshkosh, WI. He is currently working on a novel, but ain't they all...