The worst part of being a loner
is that all the stories you’d tell
to anyone in or out of the bag
who’d lend even half an ear
look like lies when you are
reviewing them in your head
to bore yourself to sleep but
luck will visit no shit and your
tales will take on a new glow
because dreams are nothing
if not barrooms where fancy
bubbles into truth and honesty
passes a jury of bobbling peers
and all bravos are on the house
and what a beautiful hangover
that launches you in the a.m.
to offer your yarns over java
of course beer and shots later
and at the closing of the say
hope that a word or phrase
sticks in ears, capped firmly
on pillows to await dream
shakes of fancy and truth
by a bartender who has
never said no or opened a
register in his puckish life
