"I went to this place - they have all kinds of beer!"
"They have more than y'all do", says the drunk beside.
Rather boastful, I think, for a swill swigging rookie.
He probably just wandered blindly in here.
"Hey what's that cocktail I like?", says another.
"Yeah, that one! The one with the German blonde!"
At least he knew what a blonde was and where they come from.
Still, he's fouling something pure with another liqueur.
Baseball, golf, and racing - all that matters now
in this former stale swamp of La Florida.
They're broadcast on every screen, and there are thirteen.
Thirteen ways to get lost, fourteen, if you count the beer.
Talking Heads in the background, "same as it ever was,
same as it ever was, same as it ever..."
Why am I writing this, "... you may ask yourself"?
I have "found myself" drinking in a Talking Heads song.
Oh, I just discovered another way to escape.
It seems there are fifteen ways to do it here;
I can be a "traveler of all time and space"
And "talk in tongues of lilting grace" with Robert's 'Kashmir'.
The thing I've just realized, ... it's so easy
to get lost and become oblivious here
surrounded by the gossiping swamp I find so dear.
This bubbling stale morass that, to my heart, is so near.
-
Author:
Eugene S. (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 25th, 2021 15:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 43
- Users favorite of this poem: aDarkerMind
Offline)
Comments3
what a wonderfully intimate last stanza, dear poet
thanks for sharing
Probably too intimate. Thanks.
You habe found your Happy place. Your home away from home. A place to feel at ease in. A place to feel at home. A nice write.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.