Foresight forgotten, the memory of which
withfallen, the hope, that unformed by the
feebleness of desire, leaches out drop by
drop. It doesn’t take long to expire— That
Angel’s Share goes up like the vapor it is.
The host, sore disappointed and shamed
before his guests, goes back, no doubt not
the least bit tipsy, or just moves on to some
other haunt where he knows— or hopes—
the scene might be a bit more inebrious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The empty bar wafts in larval limbo.
One lone patron sits nursing his last drink.
At least for tonight.
In the bar-back mirror he contemplates all the
Lost words wasted— their sense hanging there
In the stale air— the thought of a cartoon drunk.
We’ll, Better bubbles about the head than
bubbles In the vena, the latter being likely
fatal, The former being merely venal.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Okay, okay. Closing time. Ya don’t have
To go home but ya can’t stay here.”
So with nowhere else to go, off he goes.
To think, all this without leaving home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He could take the pounding in the head
For the beating of the heart hurt worse,
And adding, to boot, insult to injury,
leads only to more such sickly verse.
poetastrophy 