Culture

Before I Was 38

Skip the poem…listen to the guitar player

Sunday night is sure to feel uncertain
That is


an opening line behind the curtain
Suggesting what follows is staged, a wager


Odds


like the over/under…in the number of seconds,
In the length of a fading superstar’s encore


An


anti-ante proposition bet about how the booze
In the dressing room keeps getting younger, yet


That swill is a thrill that quenches, even after leaving
the audience thirsty, perversely
pour after pour
after pour



Published by r.Douglas

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.