Where will all the good drunks go
when George’s goes?
Not next door to the knitting shop
nor to the Bistro du Pareé opposite,
neither to Laid Back Latte across they way.
Where will all the good drunks go
when George’s goes?
When there’s no jukebox with Buddy Holly,
nor wax-wrapped cheeseburgers— with everything,
neither waiters who know you and your pour.
Where will the good drunk go,
then?
Maybe to a rented room over the gas station,
or to a street bench with a bottle in a bag,
else to his pick-up to drink with his dog.
Mike Lewis-Beck writes in Iowa City. He has pieces in Alexandria Quarterly, Apalachee Review, Big Windows Review, Cortland Review, Chariton Review, Guesthouse, Pure Slush, Pilgrimage, Rootstalk, Seminary Ridge Review, Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art, Writers’ Café and Wapsipinicon Almanac, among other venues. He has received Finalist awards for these poems: “The Way the Music Died,” (Palm Beach Poetry Festival Ekphrastic Contest, 2019), Wry Encounters (book ms, The 42 Miles Press Poetry Award, 2016) ; “Sometimes There’s a Burger,” (Hamburg Inn No.2 contest, 2009.)
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I liked the line about having a drink in his truck with the dog. Reminds me of my late husband and other guys. TWO THUMBS UP👍👍
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