GLASSON BAR

Photo via stainexpert.blogspot.ca

St. Sunday becomes the bloom of my eye;

we follow on highs and smoky nights,

in bars, the sidewalk, the silver rain.

Then again, I help myself to the vanities, the proof–

I’ve wasted my time trailing coffee rings

and muddled bassoons.

Three blockades present themselves, the golden three:

the taken, the departed,

and the not-yet-arrived.

Faceless, I encourage the red stains further.

She whispers:

“Incomplete hours. Another.”