He drank the song he sang, then sang the drink away.
\nHe was beautiful in the evening and wilted in the morning,
\nnot remembering why he was still standing, still awake.
\nLife is like that some say\u2013not he\u2013he preferred to drink and sing and not philosophize his life away.
\nHe kept a book of Bukowski by his bed and he thought of giving his copy to her whenever she walked by him
\neach morning
\ndown town.
\nShe couldn\u2019t stand him and was fascinated so pretended he wasn\u2019t real
\nand pondered at the draw of the bar stool and why he insisted on tipping his hat to her.
\nUpon the church pew she would pray in a wandering, bewildered sort of way.
\nHow do you pray for someone who does not want the full light of day?
\nSeems happiest with loud music and singing at the top of his voice.
\nShe loved the quiet of her house,
\nthe work of hands upon her quilt\u2013loud anything was alien and obtuse.
\nHow would the choir seem with him shouting out the sacred hymns of the Almighty?
\n\u2014 no she wasn\u2019t being sarcastic
\nshe pondered his supposed presence within the sanctuary,
\npraying with true honesty he wasn\u2019t real,
\nthen repented in that steepled, holy place.
\nSo then she prayed he\u2019d find his salvation in the rock band churches down the street.
\nEach morning she would walk down the avenue to volunteer at the kitchen for men such as he.
\nHe was sincere, though she did not believe him,
\n\u201cGood morning dear lady, at last we meet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n