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Friday Night

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On the sidelines again,</br>
an audience of one.</br>
Adam's face is expressionless, stoic;</br>
he plays his brother's guitar for</br>
hours. Hours and days and lifetimes.</br>
Heat rises to my face</br>
my hands shake;</br>
not regular vibrations but</br>
quick and spastic.</br>
A hummingbird's final heartbeats.</br>
His garage is dark and stifling hot</br>
another humid South Florida night</br>
like dog's breath.</br>
Headlights of a passing car</br>
migrate briefly around the room.</br>
The light flashes over his face</br>
which hasn't changed. He doesn't blink.</br>
The amplifier is at its loudest</br>
the windows shake</br>
threaten to break.</br>
'Look at me, look at me," I pray</br>
but here I am again, benched.</br>
It is the moments of weakness that deliver me here, but </br>
it is the moments of greater weakness</br>
that drive me away wordlessly.</br>
Adam stops playing suddenly</br>
my hands shake still.</br>
It's dark still, but I can sense he's watching me.</br>
"Your curfew was up ten minutes ago," he says.





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