On Paper

We sat with smokes in our lips.
A guitar leaned in the corner
by the TV, against the purple drapes
that blew in the storms.

We put ourselves on paper.
I went on in words.
My friend sketched shapes into pictures.

His dad would sit with us;
a book in his hand
and miles of philosophical thoughts to share.

We would talk about ideas
that continued to more ideas
that flooded into work.

Those days were the dream days.
We were young.
We had art.
We had time to waste.

by Gabe Redel