visit the old watering hole hole in the wall
one small window for man, parking lot full of rocks and weeds for mankind
the old stomping ground
with the regulars at the bar who regularly get stomped on;
their irregular lives that bring them there everyday regularly
hoping to find or lose something in their looking for a hug sips
their at the end of their rope gulps
their elbows on the bar slumpiness
where a “how about one on the house” request
from a decidedly obnoxious non-regular
might be met with a roundhouse and a one way trip outside
courtesy of joe the perennially pissed off bartender/owner
but it’s time to leave all this depression
ride the bumpy poetry of a city bus
home now; an enclave of respite from the menacing mauraders
now for some splashes of paint on the canvas
alongside some splashes of whiskey in a glass
while engaged in this endeavor
I’ve come to the conclusion
that scars don’t show maturity as some say
but they do give you a rogue-like flair
