True Story

There is a corner bar
that snuggles a bustling street
Cafe Parterre, I think it's called
intricate masonry tells volumes
of its history

Nowadays though
it has become a hangout for indie
types with horn rimmed glasses
they sip lattes in the morning
and dark summer wines in the night

The noise of distant trains tip taps
on exposing picture windows
and rebounds off the hollow guitar
of a hopeless moonlighting musician
who sings of his heartbreak and no one hears

A coaster falls from an oaken table
to be swept up in midnight shuffling
and ideas come to the poet in the corner
who resonates with the dirty chandelier
she pauses and pours her life from her wrists

Onto blank pages the black lines spurt
like the gray beard of the drunk in the back
curling hairs hold the alcohol and shift
with his silent sober sobs this thursday night
just like the last and the one before that

Outside the noise of fifty voices at once rises and falls
with the ringing of an antique bell
they walk to the bus stop with arms round waists
and moonlight cascades down in sheets
it rests feather-like on unsure steps

And I would walk
stained collar and all
with knowing strides the sidewalk
that I had known a hundred times before
knowing so much more than any of them could possibly fathom.

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