Tuesday, April 12, 2011


Another mid-afternoon in some poorly lit watering hole. The sun shines under the door. Ray takes off his hat and props open the door with a barstool. This makes you feel less then you did. Someone in the corner is fishing for pills. Orange. The same color as Ray's beer, or what is left of it. The sweat on your glass keeps piling on. So you take the forty-three steps to another bar she has always wanted to go to. A farmhand sleeps in a recliner. Some lady stumbles and shows pictures of her family which might be missing, or she might just miss them. It's a blur of rum and cigarettes. You take her hand and lead her back to the first bar. Not the woman with the pictures, but the woman the small feet and a taste for vodka. You spin her once halfway between the two doors being held open. The sun reflects off the windshields of passing cars. You lead her inside and play a song she wants to hear. An old woman finds a place to hang her purse.