Rolling Rock IIAmy Lemmon
Rolling Rock was surrounded by mystic lore, the bottle with its magical number “33” and the many explanations (the end of Prohibition, the total number of words on the bottle). We drank it wherever we could get it. The empties rolling around under the seats of K.’s Chrysler were always green, furtively sucked dry between home and party, bar and club, Boston and Lake Winnepesaukee. Rolling, rolling, rolling, we’d sing as the exits flew by on Route 93. A desperate bathroom search as soon as we arrived anywhere. I thought of you those weekends north, wondering if you’d ever join us, swim the soft lake, lie under quilts on the ancient beds. I drank alone on the screened back porch, listening to Jonathan Richman and Van Morrison and “The Israelites,” seeing your face and smelling your smell and hearing the funny squeak in your chest as you opened your mouth.
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