In this barroom,
They serve shots of despair
For alienated patrons to drink
And add further misery
To their laundry list of cares.
In August,
A man can be a hero
To his wife and child.
In September,
Sweeping their footsteps
From off the verandah.
In this life,
Tenderness is rare
Like an exotic African bird
Preserved in photography
In a coffee table book.
Next time I kiss a woman,
I’ll taste her breath
Slowly and sweetly,
Linger in her eyes
For eternity
Before I make my exit
And retreat into the shadows
Of another prolonged exile.