I am a Storyteller, first and foremost. This is my blog for poetry, prose, stories, excerpts of my novels and videos. Life poetry, prophetic poetry, poetry for all genres. I think you'll find yourself here if you read long enough.
Every day at five on the dot 'cept Sunday, she comes All the heads raise, swivel around, and then look away (I don't know why she comes here anymore.) They tell me she was beautiful in her time Nice long legs and red-gold hair and eyes to catch your breath But time's become her enemy, if it ever was her friend. I don't think there's anything sadder Than the face she smiles at me As I pour her beer and take her coins and watch her look around.
She stumbles to the booth that knows her contours well Fluffs back her hair and licks her lips And pretends she's unaware.
Maybe there's a new guy in that doesn't know the score And I see him raise her hopes up And then dash them to the ground. The regulars jab him in the ribs and laugh behind their hands "No, son," they say, "You want none of that!" And she pretends she doesn't hear.
When the beer is warm and the night is cold I watch her reflection in the window pane On the odd night, in that light, I can see her as she was. Sometimes, I ignore her and sometimes I just can't I wipe the bar and wipe my hands And put quarters in the jukebox. "This one's for you." I'll say And she'll light up like a child on Christmas morning And nod her graying head like a reigning queen.
But when she's gone, I'll play a Dave Loggins song And a hush falls as the room is filled with shame And pain and longing for the days that are no more. Days when youth was beautiful even on an ugly face And those eyes could make you stumble after And promise her tomorrow when you knew it wouldn't come.