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.
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