It's December again, and I wonder at the freedom
lined up along the back pharmacy wall
The late stagers shaking as they pass the real bottle now
They got the blessing of Sunday sales
a gift that came between my youth and adulthood
and real whiskey don't freeze in your beard
Warm indoors and with the tyranny of family
I'm twelve years old again wondering without judgment
at the freedom of drinking in the wind
Morgan Atwood writes from the remote back-country of New Mexico.
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