It's a Thursday evening and over par for the course I'm sitting in a sandtrap. The lie is bad, I'm buried next to a watering hole in the wall. I can't get out. The half truth is I'm a drunk a sea of sorrows. Even the dolphins, I shed no mercy. The real truth is I'm *** anchored to a barstool, barnacles from the dead sea hanging on the four legs. If this bar stool ever came to life the voice would bubble to the surface, get me to dry dock. How fortuitous the wind in my sails, finding every sandtrap and waving at the mothballs. Blind to letting the barnacles take it's course. Corrosion creeping up on me, like its relative. Who cares about the long lost voice or the red ants at his picnic. Or if Uncle lost his strokes he never had. Did someone say shipwreck? I order another double, with fire in my eyes, adding another burn to my stomach. I look at the bartenderess and my eyes don't lie. She's my type. My head tilts this way and that. I see people starring back at me. If only they knew how the ball bounces.
It was a Thursday night at the bar. I sat in my own little world. Laptop in front of me. Chips on the side. A poem that was begging to be written. So I began to type, fast, without any inhibition or cares. Edit-I read this poem again and again. I actually like it. I should do this more often, beer in one hand, words in the other. What a fun balance.