It’s all a trip and the best part is you don’t know where
you’re going, all roads detoured, doors
locked, windows
locked, hearts, minds, locked tight as a drum,
tight as
the guy at the end of the bar who’s scared of
going home,
can’t remember what his wife looks like,
can’t imagine
a world without gin and tonic and whiskies so
sour the
clouds pucker with rain, and the bartender
doesn’t hear
and watches the woman hitting on the guy, an
unlit
cigarette dangling, skirt slit, lights low and
the clink
clink of ice against glass, the music dies a
slow death,
spotlight hits, the murmur and hush of a
bored crowd,
the marijuana wafting out the door, and there
you are,
punked-up and gothed-out waiting for me to remember
how to be seared to ash.
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