What kind of bar rents strange flowers to strange men? And why was he there for hours on end? Couldn’t he afford the rent? …or was he simply trying to write “it” down… another stream of consciousness as he obsesses the emptiness of a hard rain against the window pane another metaphor impresses his senses before hitting the floor and kissing the carpet… Only to get up and light another cigarette borrowed from the “lipstick” woman… His reflection, melting in the precipitation kisses from past remain upon the now frosted glass… cherished for what they’re worth priceless moments pined away on trinkets saved… nine ’til nine he’s waiting for the train held up for yet another page… another rage avoided when he walked away… and danced the ghost with his pen… He remembers like it was yesterday the water in her hallway controlled by the lunar tide… A full moon howling… Always another man suffering… Always another train leaving… Always another bar closing…
