There are so many things

There are so many things

Imprinted on the soul

Still lives,

Soft fruit overflowing

Onto a walnut table

Scenes from an imaginary western

Playing chopsticks on an upright piano

In a dive-bar

The old man in the corner

Barely moving

His arm out-stretched along the windowsill

A brown roach sitting on the back of his hand

Tasting the air savouring the desperation

Feeling at home

As darkness closes in

Beery-light beckons to all the wayward travellers

A one-man band tunes up

Every time he lifts a drink

Nightwalkers take time-out

Of a busy schedule

As street crawlers hustle strays

For a few brass farthings

Anything to make a living

As the ceiling stains

Grow into a map of the world

Nobody wants to leave

Afraid they might

Drop off the globe

They are as close as it gets

To oblivion

Without buying a ticket

Waking up in the morning

Believing they have seen god

Making a pledge of sobriety

Like all good men should

Until the next time

When another corner folds into

An origami nightstand

With a pitcher of water

And a chair resembling

A roughly rendered Vincent

Leaning haphazardly against the wall

Nothing ever really happens

On the outside

If on the inside

Everything is as frozen

As a still-life.