100 Words on Love, by Henry Cherry
I lost a few Christmases. They went and they loped off like a spooked deer.
Tried to get ’em back, tried to force other days to replicate their essence.
Later, I sang under streetlamps, rewired electrical harnesses for
outmoded Chevrolets. Nothing matched paint to numbers.
Ran a hand through the hair, pinched the filter end of the cigarette.
How drunk do you have to be to want to reenact Irish Catholic dysfunction?
Photos by Henry Cherry