there is a man.
he steps into a bar.
it looks as if to
be older than he himself.

eyes flutter to his stained clothes.
he’s composed of
coarse skin,
***** nails,
whiskey for blood,
a head full of Bukowski,
sixty two dollars,
and some change.

only the elements.

he drinks, and drinks, and drinks.
he burps, he yells,
he ****** on the curb,
he curses.
a swig and kick then swing.
and now the
asphalt feels colder than steel.

warmer was the creaking barstool,
heating his soul,
gulp after gulp.

bitter bottom shelf brown.

but he’s determined.
determined to finish it.
and he returns.

nobody in the bar.
he looks out a window.
the streets are empty.
he grabs bottles that are not,
making friends with them.

alone with the barstool.
the tender, emerging from underneath the bar,
fixes another drink.
the man thought he was alone.
the glasses clink.

they drink, and drink, and drink.
alone, but together.

in a drunken haze he sees the drywall melt.
he hears the rumble, the pieces of oak wood
being ripped from their foundations.

the shattered glasses surrounding
the man, forming a barrier between
the outside world and himself he could not understand.

“it’s falling apart, isn't it.”
says the man, accepting.

“why yes, yes it is.”
says the tender, fixing one last drink.

“here’s to misery.”
says the tender, raising his glass up to the man.

“...and here’s to it’s company.”
says the man.

the glasses clink,
he looks out the window again.
he thinks of where he could be right now,
outside he sees marie, the kids,
the front lawn where he’d
drink beer and pretend to like
his neighbors.  

he hears no gulp or groan
from the tender.
the man looks back and sees an empty bar
with nobody there.

he feels the bar collapsing
in on itself, destroying everything within it.
a shame, truly.

no one to bask in this with.

“well.”
he says, raising his glass of bitter brown in the air.

“...to just misery then.”

cheers.


-melancholicreator