The place where people meet

The bar is filled those 

who share their problems with their drinks

and those who ask the man behind the counter

what he thinks.

Grant, as rumour has it,
is drunkard who once swore

when witchy-bitch had left him 

that he'd burn the liquour store.

Grace is dancing rhumba
in a corner on her own

spilling Bloody Mary 

on a worn out evening gown.

Phil is killing toothpicks
with a vigour him unknown

slouched beside a two-chair table 

branding him alone.

Sally's hitting bourbon
like she's tugging on horse,

and the bottom of the bottle 

is her only steady course.

Graham's sipping sherry 
feeling heavy with remorse.

His wife just died, 

and he has lived
through seven futile wars.

Mary only shows her face
in fading candlelight

thinking she's to hideous 

to ever come in sight.

Joan keeps telling everyone
that everything's all right,

though every little movement 

seems to startle her tonight.

Barry tries like always
to send out cheery wink

to Eleanor, but like before, 

she doesn't even blink.

What Grace, Grant, Phil and Sally,
Mary, Paul and Eleanor

will never see is that they all where here 

the night before.

And Barry? Yes, he knows, I guess.
If only all too well,

but he's aware that people here 

has nowhere else to dwell.

I think that's all a bartender like me
can hope to tell

about the place where deadbeat souls 

live out their living hell.