when I got sick of the bar
and I sometimes did
I had a place to go:
it was a tall field of grass
an abandoned
graveyard.
I didn’t consider this to be a
morbid pastime.
it just seemed to be the bes
tplace to be.
it offered a generous cure to
the vicious hangover.
through the grass I could see
the stones,
many were tilted
at strange angles
against gravity
as though they must
fall
but I never saw one
fall
although there were many of those
in the yard.
it was cool and dark
with a breeze
and I often slept
there.
I was never
bothered.

each time I returned to the bar
after an absence
it was always the same with
them:
“where the hell you
been? we thought you
died!”

I was their bar freak, they needed me
to make themselves feel
better.
just like, at times, I needed that
graveyard.