The Bartender.

I know he digs the way I think;
the shoes I wear; the foods I eat;
so much in fact is his smitten instinct;
he will default back to getting down on a knee…

He knows all the words to my favorite tales;
he rides into a room on no one’s coat-tails;
he’s immature – but he cleans up so well;
we are both too crazy for each other to tell…

I let him get away with almost anything;
all he has to do is bat those sweet hazel eyes at me;
flash me back to the bar he tends at night in Queens;
the mouth and mind of Walken with a heart like Huckleberry.

Sidenotes.

I’m talking with a boyfriend of hers,
he’s one I never liked…
but since she has self-destructed again,
he has fallen to despair,
unsure and confused of the “whys” and “how’s”,
shocked by the daring gamble she lives by,
“Why does she do this?”
“She hates herself underneath her stuck-up front, kid…
life has never given her a reason for anything more.”
sigh
sigh
why?
why?
Why?

We just don’t know.