A wry smile from a dry mouth,
in whisky haze with squinted eyes,
holding up the bar, no surprise,
elbows in forced equilibrium.
The bottle squeezed,
the last drop fallen, as if lights out,
and a head, no longer bearing weight,
slumps into oblivion, the final count.
Like furniture, no-one notices,
his place so common place, forgotten,
and what dreams he holds,
what’s left to be told, in darkness.
He sleeps, dead drunk,
the cold darkness embraces,
so memories behind locked doors,
stay silent in his deep dark places.
And when at midnight,
the bar needs vacating,
he nestles in an stone faced alley,
none the wiser.
Until day and warmth invade his silence,
he’ll imbue the nothingness,
and then, stricken by need,
crawl back to the bottle,
his own self administered violence,
the punishment he believes is due, for his failure.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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