The Evening’s

come to rest
in this room
my glass in its
pool of water
on this quiet brown table
under dim red light
has golden whisky
silent like the walls
listening to the slow change
the pictures come alive
the side-table
and the speakers
high in the corners
cough through static
some dead singer will croon
of love
of loss
and then the bar will bristle
the conversations start to flow
forks and spoons
clatter on plates
when a glass
falls to the floor
from someone’s hand
that couldn’t hold it anymore
and we’ll all find the swimming ceiling
the spinning sky of misery chasing fun
chasing misery
till it breaks free from the darkness
the cold torn stars
the dust moon
that claims us all.