LAST CALL

I rail against it
Lean into its
Unforgiving wind
Curse its unfeeling cold
Savor fleeting moments
Left hanging
In quivering limbs.

Not time
But time’s assassins
Long trails
Forgotten paths
Unsteady gait
Wandering
In a morass
Of melancholy.

Searching for death
In mumbled
Prayers.

ageangerfearfree verse

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Maurice Rigoler

January 12, 2024 at 11:06 AM

Old age has that effect (and affect) on us, John. It also takes courage to admit it! Thanks for stopping by and commenting on my poem. / Maurice

Panagiota Romios

January 11, 2024 at 7:03 PM

Well, John..those words ‘last call’ were anethema to me in my younger, wilder years.i was so crazy! I would hang on to the stool with both hands,..The kind bartenders then, carried me, sitting on the stool, to the door. Last call, were cold, icy words! I loved my friends at O’Rourkes Pub. So many writers were there. Huge pictyres of Brendan Behan and TS Eliot on the walls. Life was never the same once I left Chi--cago. Adventures of SF awaited me. An excellent write! ~Pangie

John Lawless

January 12, 2024 at 4:35 PM

Yeah, Pangy and there was a lot of Bs flying in the bars of Boston although most of the pictures on the walls were of noted felons