Found in My Stash of Writing, a Random Old Poem From Days That -- at This Point -- I Don't Quite Believe Could Be Mine

Ode to a bar rag


Wiped sweat and sweet liquor,
dripping from iced reflections of a needful self-image

Wiped grease sodden dreams, left by patrons
too lonesome to tip the barkeep;
Pennyless conversation left by salty peanuts
still resting in a dried-wide shell

Wiped tears and regrets of a bad day’s dreadful scene;
of lost wives and plaintive cries, drifting farther and further
along a country road; except for my breath, my life is not alive

Wiped clean as morning’s dust
draws nearer every year;
The door says closed and couples are disposed
til the stools rest once again on the floor

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