|
| |
Two Drinks For The Road
Death walks over,
boots quiet on the bar floor,
pulls up a stool
like we’ve met before.
He tips his hat,
cold eyes, tired grin.
Says, “It’s time, friend.”
I just nod,
signal the bartender with a raised chin.
"Two drinks for the road."
I say it like a prayer,
like a dare,
like I’ve still got something left in the tank
even if I don’t.
He doesn’t rush me.
Death never does.
Just watches
as the glass hits the wood
and memories start to pour.
One for the brothers I left in the sand.
One for the promises I broke with my own hands.
We drink in silence.
Not out of respect—
but because neither of us
needs to explain the wreck.
I ask if it hurts,
when it finally comes.
He says,
"Only when they fight.
Not when they’re done."
I look at my hands—
scarred, steady.
Worn from holding
more ghosts than glory.
Then I finish the second glass,
stand slow.
“You ready?” he asks.
I say,
“Ready? No. But I’m not scared anymore.”
We walk out the door
under a sky I don’t fear.
Not because I want to go—
but because I’ve been carrying the end
for years.
Copyright ©
jeffrey george
|
|