Last Call
A Poem
Published in
Aug 23, 2023
As we age,
our grace strangely wanes;
rigid, riddled foreheads,
wrinkled existential questions,
dawnscape still glowing,
night’s gate slowly closing.
Step by step,
evermore daintily we guess,
steep cliffed genuflection,
as the bartender shrills
‘last call.’
I’m barely half done,
with the first of my two-for-one,
happy hour’s ticking down
(Goddamnit!!)
My sadly sad-faced fun,
Gin and tonic chaser,
anxiously gulped whiskey plums.
‘Bartender, make my last the
Mind-Eraser, please.’
‘Yummmmmm.’
Tickling down my narrowing throat,
drowning out the tock-ticking,
finally grabbing my coat,
as the bartender announces:
‘Front-door out!’
© Scott Zosel (all rights reserved)
