it troubles me so to think about all
those poems i abandoned at the bar
when i set down that last tall glass of
whiskey and headed out the door on my
way to sobriety.

how i miss those thoughtful nights with
them, me asking them to sit down for a
drink, and them telling me how it is.
who takes care of them now? Who takes
the time to make sure they get safely to
Paper? i imagine they have gotten all out
of hand and become burdensome to the patrons.

One of my poems probably sits in the er
Right now with a busted face and cracked
ribs. the violent one's were never as
tough as they read scribbled on paper but
they sure could piss you off by just being
around.

i'll bet those anxious ones are responsible
for all those hang up calls that i get
after 6:00. they probably take turns
running across the street and harassing me
from the payphone, hoping to break my resolve
and trick me into picking up the bottle.

the confused one is probably out behind
the bar leaning against the dumpster with
a cigarette dangling from his lips and
peeing on his shoes, his wallet lying open
and unattended on the bar.

and the lonely ones are undoubtedly
huddled together in the far corner booth
nearly buried in ashes, a stack of pitchers
roof high, waiting for my direction and
unable to speak to anyone or cover the tab.

or maybe one day after months of my absence
they simply packed up shop at last call and
headed to the coffee shop. probably bought
latte's and mulled amongst the high brows
and artists where they have a much better
chance of being written.