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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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