I pull up in the Getz and
get Ian to pour me a whiskey
it's where I got a taste for it, after all.
I don't want ice,
just a quick hit of dutch courage.
He gives me too much change,
and later doesn't charge at all.
He doesn't smile much,
Ian,
not at me, anyhow
but his face suggests that he does know how
it's all lined and crinkled
in a friendly
kind of way.
It's the kind of bar
that's cozy
even when there's just
a solitary man cuddling up to a coopers pale
on the counter top
and it's always filled with music.
Tonight, I try my hardest,
even though I'm filled with something else
and the back of my throat
feels like it's been trampled
by the footsteps
of the three thousand people who have
grabbed and pushed
and begrudgingly accepted the falseness of my smile
when that's all that I can give.
My croak is amplified.
My fingers fumble.
I fuck up.
I even impersonate Susan Boyle.
For fucks sake.
I'm out before midnight
leaving ladies
fading into the night's dark crevices.
With whiskey on my breath
and six hours before sunrise
I arrive home
accompanied by the sounds
of the inner suburbs
the rattle of the last trams
the barman across the road stubbing out
his last cigarette.
Six hours til sunrise
six hours to sleep in the cool dark calm
before heat and hellish hectic masses
swarm and rush
grabbing and pushing,
pulling from these clumsy fingers
that which they believe themselves to be
entitled to.
Later I'll put them to better use,
these fingers
that fuck up.
Later there'll be music,
as soon as I'm full again
I'll fill the air
in the cool dark calm
clumsy fingers
prising notes one at a time
from six strings of steel
trying to spell out
the things I'm unable
to
not feel.
No comments:
Post a Comment