sober.
A minuscule of
a man-- that looks into the shadows
when weathered and
steely lifers stagger into the tavern from
the elements of the north country.
I stare gingerly, say nothing
to those who pass me by…
Casually tragic,
A look of anger pasted
on my craggy face…
The people up here are
friendly, wanting to make
your acquaintance.
Na, I need the bird
to put me in a cordial
mood…
Whiskey and a
good jukebox to relax
into infinity.
Just box me up
and play an
old Skynyrd
tune.
The words are dead.
The mouth is cold.
And the outlook is
nothing entertaining.
Dan Provost has been published throughout the small press for many years. He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura
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