BAR DRINKER
I really wasn't. Forever antisocial, I shunned company, only one time,
while awaiting a triple (not double)-A call
went into the Lyndhurst Tavern
across from the train station
and drank a dollar beer
that wasn't worth the money or the time
I spent looking at a bunch of solitary guys
eyeballing football highlights.
At home awaited the frozen vodka bottle
singing to me in the voices of
clarinet sonatas or Jon Vickers
'Fidelio' outcry: "Gott, welch dunkel hier!"
Those were voices that I could heed,
the voices of silence, introspection,
get the fuck away from me and
leave me in peace.
Because by day's end I was tired
of work, the commute, and (big news) myself,
and in a bar I'd have found no communion,
only strangers talking to themselves
by talking to each other
because there were no connections
beyond What'll Ya Have?
At home, pouring it out, I
could dangle reality and let it drop
to the floor, gaze at the TV,
and not pick it up again.
KTW/10-18-10
--------------
Ken Wolman http://awfulrowing.wordpress.com/
"All writers are hunters, and parents are the most available prey."
--Francine du Plessix Gray
|