The Bar

The Bar

I poured sketchbook after sketchbook
into that bar.

Trying to find the idea. That one singular
notion that might
make it all worth
while.

And there was nothing--at least not then.
the ideas, the dreams, the longing
would come later.

Then was only temporary. Then was only the moment.
And the moment was a worthless fucking
waste of time.
And the moment was women in their thirties desperately trying.
For something to reclaim.
For something to take home.

Something to fuck and in fucking
have the moment back.

I tried desperately to avoid
the preaching like some old fashions
televangelist
but nothing doing
not for this old duck
I suppose.

But then again
what was there?

There was joy for the moment
and the few squirts after.

There was desolation,
shrouded in a dream of alcohol.

There was a life. Lost.
Longing to be found.