Hourglass

11pm, way past normal 

bedtime and my thoughts 

hang like clouds in a grey, 

unsettled sky;

they are at once visible, 

yet amorphous, like the 

wispy tendrils of smoke

rising from the stub of 

a cigar being carefully 

tended by an old man 

alone at the bar;

He knows my thoughts 

of course, age alone has 

given him the answers;

and for a time, until he leaves,

we communicate without words, 

the drift of pure Havana fading 

as the door swings slowly shut

on a pale crescent moon.  

Eventually, it's time 

for last orders

and the realisation of 

leaving looms large.

'Sweetheart," he croons, 

(black garbed and so 

well practised,)

"I know its cold outside, 

but midnight beckons 

and it's time to go."

Such of course, is life,

that all too brief happy hour,

during which we strive to 

panhandle just one last free drink, 

before looking up to the heavens

and the wondering of whether or not 

the other side really does exist.

Reviews

[Sharon Miller Bolander]

Very descriptive---you took me there and I enjoyed the visit! Sharon

[Ed Hart]

well written Beccy...you have a clean and clear facility with the language...bottoms up, (i mean the glass of course)...

[Konigin]

This lead me on a wonderful adventure... I liked it a lot

Wondrous pen Beccy! :)