At the Bar.

Jazz plays downtown 

Los Angeles, California. 

Ash grey silhouette of 

A man seated on the opposite table. 

Something's sparkling in his ashtray. 

Something's bleeding on the pages 

Of the journal, as the reporter writes 

Her draft on the side table. 

People in numbers heaving in. 

Drinks on the table seeding 

To outcomes of sorrow, guilt 

And happiness flowers. 

And the wallflowers dealing 

Melancholia in solitude,

Have empty seats beside them. 

So much and so many.

 

My lazy gaze finds 

Its grip on the lady 

Singing on the high note. 

My earworms begin to 

Give me slight tingles. 

Flashbacks of a woman

Singing me to sleep. 

The same note, but no, 

I am definitely not 

On the same boat. 

I leave the place, 

Giving my space 

To the next logy one, besides 

The opposite and the side table,

And the rest of them

At the bar.