The Lonely Man

The Lonely Man

Whiskey and beer are the chains holding me here.
Roads and rails have no interest to me;
the corner tavern has my soul,
won’t let me go.

My prime was years ago and I had nothing to fear.
Now, just a ragged suitcase holds my life,
gathering dust in a squalid room,
carrying only memories.

Alone, no family or friends,  they’re all forgotten.
A slow cancer eats my remaining time,
payment for a choking smoke,
but still I light.

I hate the park in day, there’s no drinking allowed.
A playground for women and children
while the tavern sleeps till noon
and I want to die.

There’s a man on the street offering me eternal life;
he promised redemption, but no booze.
Imagine heaven: all those bums,
especially me.

Next to drinking, I like sitting at my room’s window,
observing,  feeling lucky that I’m not one
of those poor souls tied to jobs.
Too independent.

Today’s my sixty first birthday; it seems a lot longer.
Nobody knows.  So what?  And who cares?
Maybe that guy in the street
offering salvation?