"Too many nightlives have gone past my eyes
while I waited for the dawn with my fear.
I spent too much time lost in amber with barflies – "
(Habits harden in a few hundred years.)
"Nights with too much drink and too little rest
flowed into others that crystallised well;
not a cloud in my mind as my thoughts are undressed
though my nostrils remain fogged with the smell
of hops and the cleaner used on my glass,
and on the screen that covers the wood
of this bartop where many have wished their nights past
would come home again – " (But what if they should?)
"I don't know; I guess I've been fixating
less on the bartop itself than the things
locked beneath, by their nature frustrating
because I can't rub away old cup rings.
If I had it to do again, maybe I'd frequent coffee
shops instead –
Where all the grounded have grounds to stop, unlike the amber,
crystal dead – "
(The little nightlives in each shot glass?)
"Right, I was saying – the memories all
get rock hard and turn immobile with rot