Once again climbing that broken stairway,
Missing the step with the spongy wood feel,
Gaze drops to broken colored glass below.
Balance gone, with spirits and fog on his mind.
Thought he was home, but far from right.
Down, free-falling, for what seemed too long
Down to the damp, hot asphalt..alley smells
Near putrid dumpster, nightly someone's home
Staggering through worn, stained back-room door,
George Jones and smoke meet him as the barfly sways
Tired, weathered, broken she is.. as the shot glass
That lays, in two pieces, under that foot rail.
She dances to her own whiskey induced tune.
Wiping his brow, surprised by the blood there,
He mounts the cushioned stool..misses
Hits his chin, looking around to join the laugh.
Then, in the eyes of strangers, he searches
For that one, last, good buddy who really cares.
Poem by cindy Prochnow