Better a real bar than a fake heaven.
It makes tomorrow and yesterday
into old stories that don’t need re-telling.
The chopped lemons, the ones right there,
mean more to me
than all the dead guys I never heard about.
And I don’t care if they
really did build this very world—
from the pile of skulls on the hill
to the bright avenue the oceans dare not disturb
to this very bar, and this very life.
Chopped lemons, limes, the cherries, olives—
My only friends and my only tormentors.
But I’ll admit it is a hell of a story.
And sad. Why so sad?
It’s not just the drinking,
but the drinking helped.