Last Call

A wilting hand extends a blue reward,
as cracking voice floats o'er the oaken bench.
"A pot of Carlton sir," he asks, "the change
is yours; I've little need for silver'nd gold."

A youngster pulls the tap in frothy gold --
Behind him, pretty lass collecting drinks;
Tequila for another customer
Whose stronger gut can stand the fiery blaze

A weary gaze surveys the benches top
as aching eyes drink in the chilling brew
The wilting hand extends again and pulls
the glass to broken lips and drowns its voice

"Tomorrow, ask for me and you will find
that I've become a grave man" he says.
"Mercutio was ne'er as sad as I,
though Romeo may understand the line."

"Do tell?" asks younger barman as he pours
a glass of Jack infused with darkened coke.
"Your bourbon sir," he says aside and slides
the glass on oak towards a suited man.

The broken olden-timer sighs again,
and downs a final sip of Carlton's draught.
"She passed us by at last, and waking disappoints.
A shot of Jack here, cobber, please."

The night extends past final call and wizened
Older man sets foot on rain-washed street.
His greying hair and unshaved cheek are slicked
with winter cold and frost and wet, as lights

from cars on mainstreet shed to view his shape --
Too late. The rubber screech and slide and thud
so sickly renders psychic truth to life
and forces death, untimely, yet in time.