A blustery March day
on Virginia Beach
four friends shared
a PBR 12-Pack
as the ocean waves
like a cosmic metronome
broke and broke and broke.
And down the isolated sands
strode a ramblin' man
a southern sage
a vagrant prophet
chapped lips more white
than wonder bread:
Patrick.
We shared our brew
and listened
to Virginia's own
broken-down
Dean Moriarty
falsely predict the card
on the beer-bottle bottle-cap.
He mumbled
and prognosticated,
we offered solace
with our solidarity
and caught a glimpse
of hidden highways
and a hard and haunted road.
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