Blinded by the light at the end of the bar,

his too heavy head bobs and weaves. But, not far

from his warm and worn stool where drinking was best,

sat one he had known, his heart stopped in his chest.

* * *

Hurtling headlong to oblivion’s cave,

one Scotch, one gin, one more chaser to save.

His only-one-more plan for one more last drink

would push away logic, it hurt just to think.

* * *

But severed in time, time and time again

his whispering soul no longer his friend

he turned to adjourn this collective canteen

of invisible friends and the pinball machine.

* * *

He saw his reflection in spilled pools of beer

from everyone else’s love and good cheer

and paused long enough his fate to forestall

the one he had known said, “I’ll be your last last call.”