Bar Whiskey and Stale Tobacco

He’s sitting at the bar,
after a hard day, working hard,
a quick motion to the bartender,
and the tumbler hits the bar,
nothing fancy, just a double shot
of whatever whiskey’s on the rail.
He drinks it down,
and makes a motion,
another double, poured again.

Her cigarette slides
from a crinkled pack,
it dangles from red lips,
she reaches for her matches.
He sees and offers her
a light, her sad smile flashes,
a nod and then his lighter flames.
her sharp inhale of
bitter smoke, stale and harsh.

He offers her a drink,
she answers with a simple nod,
he motions to the bartender,
another whiskey hits the bar,
she offers him a cigarette,
he shyly smiles and takes
it up, she lights it with her own,
they silently sip and inhale,
sitting together.

They sit and they drink,
together and smile,
quietly wreathed in
stale tobacco smoke,
drunk on bar whiskey,
but no longer alone.


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Always remember Poetry isn’t a Choice.

Also, I’m still working on my Passion Project, my Poetry collection, In Media Rêves. Check out my GoFundMe and contribute if you would like.


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