He drank the song he sang, then sang the drink away.
He was beautiful in the evening and wilted in the morning,
not remembering why he was still standing, still awake.
Life is like that some say–not he–he preferred to drink and sing and not philosophize his life away.
He kept a book of Bukowski by his bed and he thought of giving his copy to her whenever she walked by him
each morning
down town.
She couldn’t stand him and was fascinated so pretended he wasn’t real
and pondered at the draw of the bar stool and why he insisted on tipping his hat to her.
Upon the church pew she would pray in a wandering, bewildered sort of way.
How do you pray for someone who does not want the full light of day?
Seems happiest with loud music and singing at the top of his voice.
She loved the quiet of her house,
the work of hands upon her quilt–loud anything was alien and obtuse.
How would the choir seem with him shouting out the sacred hymns of the Almighty?
— no she wasn’t being sarcastic
she pondered his supposed presence within the sanctuary,
praying with true honesty he wasn’t real,
then repented in that steepled, holy place.
So then she prayed he’d find his salvation in the rock band churches down the street.
Each morning she would walk down the avenue to volunteer at the kitchen for men such as he.
He was sincere, though she did not believe him,
“Good morning dear lady, at last we meet.”
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash
