If life were a dive bar,
and fate her cruel tender,
I'd sit top my barstool,
and ask about the weather.
Why it rains,
why it snows,
why the grass so green grows
Too scared to ask the bigger questions.
Like why she took things away,
that I held ever dear,
why her shots have been so bitter
for the past couple years.
I'd talk about music,
and reading and art,
and she'd laugh as she mixed,
just playing her part.
And when the cubes in my glass
made a sad clinking sound,
she'd grab an old bottle,
and pour a new round.
At the end of the night as I pulled on my coat,
I'd finally ask what was stuck in my throat:
"So how do you do it,
night after night,
taking away all that's good,
all that is hopeful,
what felt so right?"
She'd sigh a deep sigh,
full of sorrows and woes,
shake her head as the tears fell,
because she would not know.
All she knows is old bottles,
chipped glasses,
low lights.
All she knows is that nothing is ever just right.