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