Silence is Golden
He no longer goes to bars.
Happy hours are to be avoided.
Too much talk about sports, politics,
Religion or relationships.
Those problems endure regardless
Of what the patrons drink.
Depression, best consumed shot by shot,
In the shadows, by yourself.
It goes down much smoother,
With ice or not.
Certainly without conversation.
His preferred glass, Evan Williams and Pepsi,
Or just bourbon and more bourbon.
The calories, not a concern.
No judgment.
He knows the bartender, after all.
The soundtrack of his demise, his future,
Probably both. Various podcasts, music,
The sometimes TV shows,
Or his damn arguing neighbors.
Sound travels in his subdivision.
He delights to the sound of barking dogs,
As long as it’s not his dogs.
Never a fan of leaf-blower symphonies
Or fucking lawn mowers.
He prefers the occasional gunshots.
More final.
He drinks in darkness, in sunshine
Today, a sky full of dark and threatening skies.
The Sun, a tomorrow away.
It could be Heaven. It could be Hell.
He never waits long for the next glass.
Horror Sleaze Trash 