Seven chicken pies swimming in my head.

Well, it's official. You CAN indeed be too drunk to sing James Brown. Luckily, they knew some Ray Charles. True old hometown moments: improv jam session at 3:00 am at the old Mexican restaurant, doing shots off the line in the kitchen, passing the bowl around on the balcony of the second floor discussing with the owner where the best acoustics would be, wandering around the back lots of historical downtown pointing out all the old painted murals from our childhood.

We sat smoking in the moonlight in the old neighborhood just like we used to, talking of the present though impossible to really see it. The wind rushed through the trees and we fell silent. Far off in the distance, we heard a train passing through town
taking everything with it
all over again.

Never really realizing that we wouldn't have dug our nails into it so tightly when it was pulled away if it hadn't once been so sweet. Ripping it to shreds for if any small part had been left intact, we would have grabbed that too.
We had heard that whistle so many times.
Smiling across the car, we unclenched our fists and listened to it slowly fade away.

Goodbye, Salisbury.