the last bus
The last bus
This is a day for us losers, no this is not about the climate, from my window it looks like doing well, a dollop of sun there and a splash of rain there, it is no asking for anyone’s permission
With losers, I mean us who have managed to get old, but living wildly and not going for longevity
This makes us miserable because we have nothing to look back on and say, sure I did that
It is not that we didn’t try to make a mark, but
Booze and women got in the way, conquest
a whore in every port
Some of us tried to make a mark by scribbling
Our thoughts on paper, exposed our tiring vulnerability for all to see, only to discover that
No one wanted to know gave a , because
One needs a name to make it worthwhile to
Read your missives
So here we are getting pissed every night
Blaming fate for our misery when the bitter truth is we’re not talented enough to be
Recognized
For some reason, we continue to write for
We know what else to do; reflect on that we
Know God is punishing us for sins we were not aware of, as we whored our way through life
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