Closing Time

 

All the forlorn hacks

And insomniacs

Easy Street’s a thousand miles away

My mind’s racing,

But the finish line keeps escaping

My grasp

The night’s kinda sleepy as it clings

To the four-lane express lane to nowhere

And the old men are lying about the places they’ve seen

And the places they’ve been

Hell, they never got off their asses

But, the stories are funny

And the experiences, although fabricated,

Are interesting enough

Neon lights like swizzle sticks

Mixes with the stars in the sky

Under a blood red moon

I’m drained

And the buses wheeze and cough

As bad as the storytellers at midnight

After too much smoke

And too many tiresome conversations

Just watching the moon as it winks

In that dark, warm inebriated night

It feels like home, but doesn’t feel quite right

And the taxi drivers are the only ones

Who know where they are going

We are all playing graveyard charades

With our lives and our loves

It’s cold coffee under a nicotine sky

It’s cold shoulders or a warm embrace

It’s a glass of whisky and just wondering why

Reviews

[Kenneth The Poet]

Very cool. I like this write, somewhat brooding and yet somewhat hopeful under the surface.