Tuesday, September 1, 2020

Failed. By Dan Provost


--Then,
become angry about all the emotional
investment put into that last
relationship—cut the blinders off as you
find a bar open on the seacoast in January…

Where you go when silent mourning
is never questioned.

--Then,
sit on the cranky stool, 
look at all the fishing gear and
pictures of striped bass being caught
by summer heroes, lauding their
weekend warrior victories.

--Then,
look around for a juke box, careful
not to relive her Aretha Franklin songs.
Music can be so evil sometimes.

--Then,
eye the barmaid—You and her being the 
only two in the place.  Her eyes taut, her
body tight from some exercise regime
to fight age.  
But you can see the life wear in her 
demeanor, the bored situation routine
given as you order a beer and a shot of 
the bird.

--Then,
Order another Miller Lite and whiskey, keeping
the suggestion open that you and she could
become something special—Try portraying
a sensitive man, who is worthy of being
loved…

--Then, 
Forget that thought when she slowly shuffles down the bar
and fills the shot glass…You look up, giving a smile and a
proper hello…She grunts, grudgingly responding, then goes back to 
her Clive Cussler book.

--Then,
mentally encounter
every bartender
you fell in love with while
escaping the scraps of other
Ms. Finals.

--Then,
take your shot, gulp down
the beer—and leave,
without acknowledging her
existence.

--Then,
walk along the beach, shiver as the cold hits
the Wild Turkey brain,
arrange some
rocks with your foot, forming an abstract 
statue in honor
                       of
                          the lonely…

--Then,
dream that every anguish of your
pain is akin to the Who’s Sea
and Sand video, visualize yourself
as that disillusioned kid, taking
the uppers and wishing the ocean would
decide the fate of suicide

for you…

--Then,
fall down, the breeze offers little
atonement with the broken…

--Then,
Understand there ain’t much in
this world that has not already been
suffered…Find no comfort in this thought…

--Finally,
Live sparse, die… definition
diseased…near the shore where everything
is equal…but no one really
cares.





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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