The day I fell off the wagon…
I was proud of my disgust--
Putting another fiver into
the juke box.
Miller Lite and Wild Turkey
were missed around my gullet.
Sitting on an informed barstool, looking
at the world go by.
through unwashed, sooty
windows.
The only other guy in
the bar was gone…
Dead to the world…
Head thrashing around
like a good seizure.
Occasionally, gulping back
deserved vomit…
As I sang, played the air guitar
and waited for the next god damned
song…
I fetched the bartender—grabbed him
by the apron and said…
“Good to be home.”
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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