Good by Closing Time

“He’s a writer”
quipped the group of travelling students,
and incited much laughter
over the clownish character by the bar—
scribbling notes in search for prudence.

Well-rounded character indeed;
well-equipped with rounds and rounds of whiskey,
writing variant verses of well-wishes and desperate need.
Such was the sight that gave mirth from afar.
Write writhingly: “If words are my locks, what be my key?”

I, ‘the writer’, sat and wrote,
wrote, and wrote—alas, “signifying nothing”:
A paragraph spoke of love, other of places remote—
one pondered a reaching hand; three dedicated to seek out a star.
Entries counted for minutes; my mind encircled a golden ring.

Oh, look at this writer; he was some sad spectacles!
He is undoubtedly cultured, well-read on his art.
Yet, his eternal urn is of half-empty glasses;
he smiles like the Norse Vidar.
There is something rotten in the state of my heart.

He is no Bard, though he speaks with love of thee.
He has no Penelope waiting at home.
He might have a briefcase—for affairs too brief to believe—
With collected letters he signed ‘Prufrock’—he wrote these alone.

He’s (or is it “I’ve”) been drinking since two.
He attracted mild intrigue, whilst he thought mostly of trains.
He writes still, but only to renew his feelings for you.
His sentimental bones have achingly ascertained his crippled remains:

“Good night, dear all—I think I’ll depart.
Good night, white heal-all—heal my crumbled art.
Good night, o Amsterdam—I’ve been here but a week.
Good night, dear barman—I’ve promises to keep.
Good night, old, ugly song—we sang again today.
Good night, red shirt—I promise I’ll mend your stains away.
Good night, my thoughts—I promise we’ll stay in touch.
Good night, my old friend—we never amounted to much.
Good night to you too.
I shant remember it—
but I fell asleep thinking of you.”

By JPV

Copyright June 2006