Bobby Mercer tipped the half empty bottle of booze to his lips and drank; he didn't even know what it was, just that it would make him forget what he needed to for a little while.
He sat on the roof of his mother's house, feet dangling over the edge. This was where he used to sit with Cracker Jack, way back when.
Bobby looked up at the stars.
"Merry Christmas, Jack. Miss you lots."
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 3
Poetrythird poem collection. they aren't in any particular order or anything like that, and after 100, there will always be a new one. if you've been here a while, I'm sure you know the drill. now, about the cover. it was a random Thursday, and an old fri...
