Beer

Cars are lining up for spaces
in the beer store lot at five o clock
in the last dusk of lingering summer.
I remember the warmth of having
the sweet malted wheat in my arms
my throat, my gut and my blood
on Friday nights so long ago.
There was slowing of the clock
and the softening of its hands
in the little ocean that I took home.
I remember the movie in my head,
some kind of hero's journey,
that flickered in the crack in time.

I'm glad I did it, though I'm
twenty-two years dry.
I count the years now,
and I imagine less.