its Happy Hour

it’s happy hour

it’s happy hour
a time of letting go
a time that the searchers and seekers and afternoon creepers know
a time...
for monks at the doorstep who stand silent with a begging bowl
and innocents on horseback riding through the dark woods
it’s happy hour
such a claim to fame friends wander in
find their usual stools their order being mixed by the bartender who knows their drinks and their tricks who
loves them if they’re cool and lay a tip down
and play by the rules
a time...
for sailers hearing the songs tying themselves to the mast
and artists who venerate the ruins of the churches
it’s happy hour
we’ve come from sites unknown and found a comforting place that lets us sit and talk
be in the now of the day laughing and listening
or sitting for a time
being alone
a time...
for mendicants who kneel and circumvent the high mountain

 and the builders of spires that are never high enough
it’s happy hour
where ever you may be
let the militias storm the
cantina somewhere let
them come and have a drink
the tequila settles conflicts
the boisterous begins them again leave your guns at the door bring your epic bodies to the bar let a doe eyed beauty
make you feel like a man
pay for the drinks spend
all you can
a time...
for poets of metaphors and highfalutin images in songs
and finely dressed comedians with a bon mot and a sly laugh
it’s happy hour
I remember it so well
a walk around the corner
to the Whitehorse pub
in a funky old local hotel
the bartenders were there
we knew their names and
what they could do for us
and if we got out of line or
crossed the threshold of impropriety they kept some kind of micro order whatever it would take
yet with some kind of concern
for the fallen and desperate
a time...
for left over existentialists in a cafe that never closes
and partisans still in the trenches fighting for freedoms remembered

 it’s happy hour
suddenly a moment of dread
comes invisibly into an empty dream fill it up again Lori
tonight I need a friend
with a closer look
the day was like another
like the other living outside
there was no end no turning back look into the glass find your reflection wait look into the street
from the window seat wait
wait for the end
you could die there
in your state of illusion and joy or
just meander home again...