The poet sits at the table in the corner, his tablet laid out before him, next to an empty shot glass, and a half full glass of a local IPA. He holds a black gel pen in his right hand...he is fucking tired of writing about death, but it seems to be coming more often these days.

Once that is all he wrote, even though it barely touched his life...but those are the long days of youthful angst. Now, he writes to commemorate those he loves...he licks his lips, tastes the whiskey remains that lie beneath the bitter beer drops...and he sets down, playing the words sprawled on the page as if they were a tune, the tablet his clársach, the pen, the strings.


He walks down the rows
between apple trees, stretched limbs
reach for heaven's floor,
he turns back, one final look,
then steps into the shadows.

Oh hell....he knows he can do better than that...and he will...maybe just not yet.