Somewhere there sits a lone man at a bar filled with lowlifes lost in his thoughts mad at the world and at her it's eight in the morning and dawn is long past and its eve's seat he'll now nurse across the bar room through the blinds, some sun peeks in over the seedy rug the sun drying the last cleansing of a patron's puke the musky smell the last of his worries his eyes take in the bar he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons and a meaningless nod indifferent to being friendly matching the terrain of the other lowlifes at the bar all on crutches, it seems on the wall hangs pictures of storm clouds black and ominous as his life the first of his worries him and his head always drooping or were those pictures in his imagination the music box plays a sad song smoke gets in your eye followed by lies another sad song stories of his life accentuated grabbing at him his worries her effect how poetic, he smiles him in effigy through the smoke in his eyes and more beer he can clearly see her with a voodoo doll in hand sticking needles in him maybe deservingly if only he could tell her a story he thinks better of his thoughts and a pending epilogue thirsting for sunshine instead his eyes glance up at the women bartender plain, plump, playful, pierced sunshine for the moment his lips, and tongue curl his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks her backside sticking up like a beehive and for a moment he wants to be a bee he plays with his beer bottle running his hands past it's neck caressing, taking a sip thinking of his past love the softness of her neck ***** her essence of how pleasing it would be to touch her her nest if only he could be a bird for a moment fly and be in flight with her together in the sky making baby birds their innocence and first tweets that would have been nice now ... landed at a hole in a wall his eyes and thoughts keep soring he grabs more beer more beer pausing to grab some honey with his eyes he keeps playing with his loose change spinning a quarter like watching her pirouette again and again she had that effect on him
Logan Robertson
11/15/17
I wrote this poem today on Poetry Soup under the pseudonym, connie pachecho. At last count the poem was drowning in 9 views. I'm not going to lie that was very disappointing. Maybe it's me. Truly I'm lost. Maybe I'll pick up a few more views here and light a candle.