The winds of hope blow through
the boarding house's corridors
sober, listening to John Kay's "Easy Evil"
having finally rinsed my glass of Tennessee whisky,
that once flowed sojourn down stream.
With the best of  intentions,
hell's as current as the midnight lodger,
presiding in room 207,
her absinthe addiction
driven me to distraction
some are marooned on  the rich mud silt of life,
but I need to edge towards resolution.
a packed suitcase
whose once dreams hazed,
finally vies beyond the rivers edge.