In a dimly lit corner,
In a southern bar,
In the loneliest part
of town,
Where the wooden floor
creeks with every step,
I chose the far most
gloomiest table.

The juke box
playing random blues,
an antediluvian tending the bar,
who cannot remember
how to serve a customer.
I stare into space
playing with a thorn menu
my fingers running across holes
in the table.

I,
like this paper
have suffered.
Like the jukebox,
I’m old.
Like the bar,
I’m forgotten.
Like the owner,
I’m alone.

______________________
By Steffi ~