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By coujeaux Date: 2003 Nov 05 Comment on this Work [[2003.11.05.11.21.14933]] |
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Piano player was rythymic, divorceés chattered over the jazz, lonely men schemed, An eclectic collection of people'd rather be anywhere else sat together and dreamed. In a whiskey glass, familiar escape, he sees faces of all the women come then gone, While she nurses a cigarette and double shot of bitter anguish at why she carries on. Now it's quarter of one, past bedtime on responsible nights, but everyone's still here, Should they stay or go; be alone or with one they hardly know; destination's unclear. Empty lives, another round; they suffer desolation without a sound, these unlucky few, By day wishing for something more significant than wasted opportunities, just like you. Desperation's not the right description; they'd manage just fine without a night of pain, But someone numbed so deep even the toenails are asleep has about anything to gain. Making sure to sip grain medicine slow 'cause they've got an hour to go 'til the last call, Ice melts in a drink faster than a heart, I think, and there's no judgment in that alcohol. They hear derision from their comfortable friends that there's no salvation within a bar, Never find anyone worthwhile sitting in spirited stupor most evenings; haven't thus far. While the solitary are transported home, wives start wringing their hands; man's away, As the little woman learns truth as to his whereabouts, the regulars have had their say. We'll be seeing you at the usual time, and don't be ashamed; we can't use that excuse, Pull up a chair, our waitress is over there; maybe someone here will become your deuce. |