The stool sighs under my deadweight cheer,
A drunken moon stuck to the veneer.
The neon hums like a pissed-off fly…
Ah, well. Pass us a tin, will ya, Bill?
Bill slides a tin—condensation sweats—
the kind that forgives a man’s regrets.
I suck the froth, that bittersweet lie,
while the jukebox coughs up a lullaby.
Somewhere, a glass topples in slo-mo,
Shatters polite as a TV show.
The barkeep’s rag mops up the crime,
Like it’s done this dance a thousand times.
Outside, the streetlights yawn and stretch,
Their orange glow like cheap ketchup smears.
A taxi hiccups past the curb,
Ah, well. Pass us a tin, will ya, Bill?








Cleverly penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.