Down at the bar we sit and wait,
as if our glory days, so great,
still might return anon.
We act younger throughout the night,
so we forget, while we get tight,
that halcyon is gone.
And all the girls who tend the bar,
pretend to laugh, but just so far;
it’s hard to hide pity.
Last call, they turn on all the lights;
watch us shuffle into the night,
mumbling something witty.
1 MAY 2017
Come, pour me a glass of that wonderful stuff
that once is begun is not ever enough;
and under whose influence we learn to bluff,
imagining ourselves immortal and tough.
Come, pour me a round of ambrosial brew
and join me in raising a glassful or two.
For soon comes the morning, when payment comes due,
with bitter bright sunlight that pierces the dew.
Come, pour me a quick one as I seek the door!
My limit’s approaching, I can stand no more.
Yes, the pounding of my blood is building to roar;
soon, my only comfort will be the cold floor.
Come, pour me a drink! One is never enough!
While the wine is flowing, it’s wonderful stuff
that gives to us courage, all bluster and rough,
to watch as our dreams turn to mere dust and fluff.
11 APR 2014
If I were still a drinking man,
I’d say I need a shot;
but as my self-made realm is dry
I think I’d better not.
If I were still procuring weed,
I’d want to roll a joint;
but all I’ve left is seeds and stems —
I think you get the point.
If I were still alone and free,
I’d probably point my car
with nowhere as my destination;
but now I’d not get far.
If I had those proclivities
that helped me through my youth,
I’d more than likely make a mess
of things, to tell the truth.
Instead, I’ll sit and meditate,
reflecting on a week
that seemed to drag on endlessly
and sap my strength to speak.
Then in the morning, when I wake
I’ll not be worse for wear;
and be more glad for nothing planned
and money saved. So there.
If I were still the man I was,
I’d see myself, and laugh.
But then again, I’d rather be
a joke than epitaph.
21 JAN 2005