It is that I remember
the bottom of a stout,
A single belch was surely
the last of it no doubt.
Another came so freely
from a friend I didn’t know,
Although the rest is foggy
I had several in a row.
I remember too - a painting
it drew my thoughts right in
It felt as if the colors
were painted on my skin.
My wrinkles were the brush strokes
my age was framed in gold,
The wall – a place of honor
where my story would be told.
What I thought at first – a landscape
was instead a tattered face,
Whose gaze was fixed across the room
on someone out of place,
Familiar was this man to me
with the sadness of a fool,
A lonely heart just looking back
from a sad and lonely stool.
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