A Drunken Dog

I once worked at a place where I slept between the beer crates, and rode the elevator with it's sliding door, to waste time until I could pull on my scarf and coat. And walk to the bar with it's scent of spilled wine and spoiled souls, to sit on a stool and order my lunch of whiskey and nuts. While the lost and the damned sat behind in the booths making a pint last an afternoon, and the barman's dog got drunk from the puddles that lay dark on the floor. I don't miss that time, but I often think about that dog.