Rain glints down, it’s three am
Time to get a drink again
I’ve been sucking back dry bottles and bottles of
old times, like whiskey with that old
burning sensation, like cutting up onions
with a dull knife blade.
Cuts not so deep you can’t feel the wound.
I pour myself another shot and nod at the night
waitress, hoping she’ll smile at me and
give me a knowing glance. I like her hair, it makes
me think of safety, but it’s not her hair that
snags me, but the way she bustles back to
my table, being the only customer has its advantages
since there’s no one else here and there’s nowhere else
to go and she’s got no one else to talk to
and she’s just run out of cigarette breaks and I must
have that look on my face says I’m here to stay
’til her shift is done. Might as well, she might
be saying to herself. The long ones never tip well.
God I wish I smoked. It would make these long nights
bearable. But what about life says things gotta be
so? When you’re jacked or loaded or both you
get a sense of time floating along like a tiny
river, you only gotta dip your hand in to feel the flow
but you can stay outside of it as long as you
keep your balance and watch that bank it’s slippery
easy to fall in
easy to remember
especially looking back, you see all that water comin’
at you like a wall of memories
Funny how time runs back to front. Funny how we’re always
scraping, paddling, trying to swim to the stuff we
left behind.
Bottles of whiskey floating on the surface.
I take another slug and slap down a C-note, give the waitress
another nod–you deserve it, lady–and get the hell out of there.
It’s a dark wet night out, and I feel like driving.