Sunday, June 12, 2011

Late Talk


Words fluttered between them;
Birds perched upon stools.
It was late, few were left; none listened.

A picture ran over and over
Above the tweeting heads.
The janitor swept up the bits
Fallen to the floor
And deposited this in the trash
Where it belonged.

Someone began flicking off TVs.
The barkeep wiped off glasses with his towel
And the last customer flipped a final bill down.

Sometimes, he thought,
It is better to be a chronic drunk
Than hear the world that thinks it’s sober.

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