I wonder who my true love might be
I wonder too, if she is a falsehood
And I question something related to this: am I a blog, or is it her?
I ponder if there is truth in love
Or if we slip lonesome under a plastic sky
Late at night, just at closing time, 'Beer Mugs' Moran stood in the alley behind the One Lucky and smoked a cheap cigarette. The old bartender's shoulders ailed him, so each time he lifted his smoke to his lips he cringed. But through his pain he could hear a sleeping dog breathe. The stray's lungs were deep and powerful, even as he was dreaming; but he also was aging. His hind legs had become arthritic and hobbled his gait.
'Beer Mugs' dropped the smoked cigarette and stepped on it. Lately his knees and ankles hurt him and he wondered if they would grow as painful as his shoulders. He left the alley and uneasily locked the front doors of the One Lucky. Soon the morning's light would shine. This time between closing and sunrise seemed to move faster to the bartender. He had heard the sensation of hours flying by happens to men in their fifties. This worried him as much as his hurting body abandoning him altogether. But in his dreams his lungs were deep and powerful; and he believed this was a good thing.
Poems of the Week by Robin, Julian and Frank
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