Drinking In Sorrow

The man in the isolated bar Had come in a dust-engulfed car From a destination, very far Like the far-flung star: Via routes of more sand and less tar. Now, drinking to be calm, The stuff, a believed balm His cup plastered to his palm Not likely to occasion him any harm… It’d been the poorest harvest in his farm! A drinking in sorrow By one bound to borrow, Certain that this life is hollow And it’s best of tracks, not one to follow.