IN THE BAR AT 2AM AT 50
“IT’S TOO DAMN BRIGHT IN HERE”
The drunk guy in the corner says
To which the bartender replies:
“Go Home” “It’s Late”
“You’ve Had Enough”
So you, hearing all this get up and turn your head and look around to catch a glimpse of the drunk guy causing all this commotion thinking that the wasted bastard is going to make some retort, retaliate or say something funny, so you wait for his witty banter or at least a decent comeback, but it never happens
And then?
Suddenly just as you’re about to leave you stop for a second and see him in the mirror
Looks like he’s leaving too.
The great ages of prose are the ages in which men shave. The great ages of poetry are those in which they allow their beards to grow.
R.M. ENGELHARDT 