THE INEBRIATED POEM
I didn’t notice,
while I sat here writing,
that everything in the world
disappeared, except my barstool,
the table, brew, and my misery.
And so I scribed
as if to convince myself of worth,
“this is the tavern of broken hearts,
I am the friendly drunk,
searching for words to ameliorate
my dejection in a world
that irreverently swallows
pieces of lost love.”
I looked down,
the color of the page
remained white,
the black lines had mysteriously vanished.
In order to document my despondency,
I stood upon the stool
and mounted the table
as the stool tipped away,
singing these words
to an indistinguishable accompaniment
floating in my ears,
beer spittle and bits of a broken heart
flying from my mouth
to an apathetic applause,
using the neck of my bottle
as a microphone and kazoo,
before the bouncer’s deliverance.
THE CONVERSATION
Jack Daniels called to me
from behind the bar
in my stupor,
called me from the long line
of liquid male monikers
beckoning my attention
from the shelves
upon which they rested
to validate a taste,
but this night belonged to Jack
as he attempted to pickle
my heart, shredded to pieces
beneath my slumping ribs.
I explained to him
how I gave her my dream,
he laughed then burped,
how I gave her my breath,
he smirked and burned my throat,
how she raised my spirits
toward the highest of clouds,
he gagged and made me heave
my pathetic disposition
toward the busy barkeep,
obviously amused
by the talk with JD
until I enlightened him.
A SLOW DAY
It’s been quite a while
from the time when
the shapely waitress
took my order
in this dimly lit pub
where I sit at the only table
next to a window
adjacent to the bar
and watch the rain
intimidate pedestrians
on the street.
The day passes slowly
and the sun has descended
since I last heard the rattle
of glasses or bottles,
since the waitress appeared
on the floor
to complete her rounds.
A warm bottle of brew
occupies my fidgeting fingers,
yearning another cold one
at this corner table
I selected myself
for relative seclusion
and to placate a curiosity,
listening in
on the gossip of barkeeps.
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