Broken Bottle

broken bottle
The words of “A Free Man In Paris”
wander through my mind as I
walk this empty road early, with
a breeze blowing aspen leaves
like the applause of a distant crowd.
A bead of sweat forms on my
temple, my own personal dew drop,
a sparkling physical sign of the humidity
that hangs relentlessly in the Midwestern air.
I discover the remnants of someone’s drinking
escapades in the brown bottle glass
fragments scattered on the pavement.
I raise my glass, if I had a glass, to you
unknown imbiber, for casting off the
shackles of society which we all willingly
endure, and for a few cherished moments
forgot about the political troubles, the wars,
and others weights you carry and just got drunk.
Freedom comes in as many forms as there
are people and we must take it as we find
it or watch it slowly fade away.
The temperature rises another degree
an another bead of sweat appears
to make its way down the side
of my face. “I was a free man in Paris,
unfettered and alive.”

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