I press dollars on the table,
faces up,
dead presidents smiling
at the pretty waitress.
She does not mind my foolishness.
And, besides, her smile
is bright and well-practiced.
I borrow it for a moment.
For the man beside me
with his sad heart
and his tales of deceitful exes,
corrupt bosses,
ungrateful family,
needs all the smiles he can get.
He lifts a hand to wave at her.
Not a wave exactly.
It’s more a kind of prayer
And she brings more wine,
enough to loosen the edges
of both our faces.
He doesn’t lighten up exactly.
But he begins to doze.
And maybe he can find solace
in whatever dreams may come.
I leave him there, walk home
past the window
where he still sits,
head down, muttering something
in my direction,
in a kind of slurry code that says
you must always be drunk.
And I think:
hell, maybe he’s right.
Maybe you must always be drunk -
on wine, on women, on sorrow,
on the simple fact that the world
keeps refusing to end.
So I go home, kick off my shoes,
and drink to that.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Abbey. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.
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