Old Fashioned

Sauntering into the pub from out of the fog

the varnished wood paneling on the walls 

reflecting the amber light from the Edison bulbs 

in their 30’s era fixtures hanging overhead

the air perfumed with the familiar scent

of leather, lemon, and lavender

I see you sitting alone at the bar

your hair glinting gold with the slightest hint of red

You greet me as I seat myself on the stool at your side 

The bartender places an Old Fashioned in front of me

identical to your own but for an extra orange slice

as he knows by now that’s the way I like it

You inquire as to how I’ve been as I take a sip

I say that nothing’s changed since last we met

or I wouldn’t be here before I notice your glass 

is nearly empty and order you another

I drop the cherry from mine into it as Al Bowlly croons 

about a ring around the moon from a gramophone 

I can't help but recall how he died in the Blitz

and was buried the next day in a mass grave

as if he had been no one of any consequence

You turn your head to look at me with your

soulful azure eyes as I light a cigarette to ask 

once again why I insist on killing myself

I answer you as I have a hundred times

I’m already dying as even you will eventually

so what does it matter

All of this is only an absurd fantasy 

The real you doesn’t know me to give a damn what I do