Found in my stash of writing, a random old poem from days that -- at this point -- I don't quite believe could be mine

Published 2011-11-03

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