There was this one time I wrote
To the mad man who sat
Catty corner
To my thoughts
But on par
With my emotions.
He pushed me out of my poem, told me to get lost
And asked for some change.
Indignant.
Who did he think he was?
His graying hair, was long gone
Traded in for the simplicity
Of a bald head
That made him look like Buddha
If the Buddha had a drinking problem
Wrinkled skin
And an ill temperament
That’s what he would look like
Sitting catty corner to my soul
In a tender bar.
Where rings of condensation
Encircled a home for the pilsner glass
Filled to the top with melting ice
That rests astride a pint
Glass now empty .
I finished the thick dark liquid an hour ago
At this point, I’m imploring the barman
To fill it, with whiskey instead of beer
He refuses
And assures me of my inability
To stomach that much liquor,
Hands me more receipt paper
And glances over the crumpled
Failures
Crowding my designated
Region of the bar.
Lips question writers block
But his eyes
Tell me
He knows
All the false starts surrounding my person
Indicate
A lack of conviction when it really counts—
I glare back
As he shakes his head
Mutters something about
Women giving him grey hair
And he tells me to drink my ******* water
My catty corner mad man has long since
Gone,
I, left with the self consciousness
And wet rings of condensation
That safely harbor my thoughts
At the tender bar.