just
before the moon
shuffles
in with yesterday's
lingering
hangover,
punching
in late
to perform his ageless duty
as
the gears grind back
the
clockwork
of
a working man's day.
Early
birds' early bed,
still
wet with dusk's rust,
was
not fashioned for us,
not
while the city slips
into
its dizzy dream
where
even death can sit
unsolicited
and drink till last call.
I
can see him there.
At
the end of the bar.
Been
mean-mugging me all night.
But
that's alright,
for
now we're both into our beers
and
no one seems to be moving.
And
I know how life's shortness
could
feel so long
to
human hands.
I
know there is hope, too,
hope that rusts
as
well as the pipes
draining
the sky
of
its quiet relief,
spilling
out unto unsung vistas.
We
would collect there
some
nights,
but
those nights
never
felt so light
as
when the world
would
stop to sit in them,
perhaps
mulling over
some question
some question
in
the dark.
And
I know
that
there are beautiful women
in
the bar
across
the street.
They're
sitting on barstools,
sipping
on cocktails,
drinking
in the room.
They
want to be spoken to.
But
if I found the message
in
the bottle
I've
been slowly nursing
back
to health,
I
would walk right in,
take
off my coat,
and
be at ease.
But
most nights,
I
drink the words too.
And
I heard the call-notes
of a song sung
from
some sobbing saxophone,
belted
out
like
the breath he had been holding
all
day to play
for
the moment
the
world
would stop to listen.
Oh,
and being is no easy thing,
and being is no easy thing,
after
all the hope
and all the women
and all the music leave,
one
must still stumble
out
into the day
and
fumble for the keys.
Oh,
and time,
and time,
time too decays,
and often the breaks
and often the breaks
needed
replaced
when
the passengers feign
their use saying,
“not
so fast,
and
not so close”.
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