The night air
is a bitter chill
to these lips
as we swim
across the lake
to the canoe
with friends
and drugs
and booze
and sex
all waiting for us
we make it
out of breath
I climb in
and stand up
capsizing the
canoe and
all the goodies
in it, floating
down to
the floor of
the lake
with shame
pawing the
of the
drugs in my
right hand
and watching
as the angry
faces jiggle
from above
the water

Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Share on Reddit
Pin It

About Kevin Ridgeway

Kevin Ridgeway is a writer currently living in a shady bungalow in Southern California with his girlfriend, menagerie of mangy cats, and old books. He wasn't meant for these times, should have been born a century ago and often daydreams in black and white. When not writing he haunts the local graveyards, more lines and sends letters off to his imprisoned bank robbing old man, who looks like George Clooney on acid and once took a prison pottery class with Charles Manson. Mr. Ridgeway also enjoys strip Scrabble and is an amateur avocado farmer.
   3 years ago
A similar event happened to me years ago. On a smaller scale than what these lines seem to detail.
   3 years ago
Haha. This is great!

Most Popular Story of Issue 28

The Aspiring Writer 35: A.S. Coomer:

The Aspiring Writer 35: A.S. Coomer by Chris Lambert
The Aspiring Writer 35: A.S. Coomer
by Chris Lambert