and shatters
with a suicidal sense of
lacking self-worth.
Swept up, the dust bin ambulance
whiles him to his dumpster mausoleum.
In black suits
and wire-rimmed spectacles
we mourn our front line soldier
under the neon red, white, and blue
of the Bud Light and Exit signs
at this barfly funeral.
With our whiskey breath
and vodka steps
we stumble over
barstools like grave stones
and leave flowers
by the draft-spigot tomb.
As I reach for a new drink,
"Hey, barkeep, read
a passage from that old book
you got up there."
The stoky man
reaches to the back of his highest shelf
and flips to a dog-eared page:
I do not even
pass judgment on myself;
I am not conscious of anything
against me, but I do not
thereby stand acquitted.
I raise myself up,
swallow two more shots,
then at the the door
I tip my hat
to my dear, departed friend
and stagger
towards the hospital
to see how my dear dad
is coming along.
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