Stumble

STUMBLE

He had that look,
that Van Cleef
smirk,
sitting over in the dark corner
of whiskey nightmares
and I had my own;
the stare-down
of a modern day O.K
Corral
but whiskey was on
the mind of tonight's slingers,
the rapid fire
of throw down
and memory loss,
a loss rivaling
lobotomy's past incisions.

"Troubles, friend?" I asked.

And the dialogue of all wrong
was right, this night
and with the blur of traffic
outside the neon
oasis,
our thoughts turned
to make all good
with another swallow.

And I thought of tomorrow's
daybreak;
a dry and bleary stumble
to a cold rinse
and hot cup;
probably wonder
if that stranger thought the same
with his cold splash
or the million cold splashes
in troubled times.

How youth, I thought,
with Flexible Flyer dreams,
had turned to heel worn down
concrete travel
and with a click
of instant quick check;
Good Morning America's,
starched hair forecast
called for cloudy skies,
through the week.

"No shit", I said to no one.