Let’s tell time in stories.
Let’s tell stories in dimes,
in losses,
in rounds of tequila in basement bars.
Let’s remember
when bikes meant freedom,
coasting through an empty campus
on summer nights.
Every winter,
we’ll wish for snow days,
“Baby, it’s Cold Outside,”
to group cuddle on couches
and drink each other’s beers.
And over time we’ll fill journals,
bind albums of our memories,
so we can press replay
and watch ourselves grow up together
over and over.
The Poem Explorations of Mr. Creery 