At The Ikon

Alone at the Ikon
late on a Wednesday night.

Sipping on a mocha
staring at a Sauvignon
wishing maybe I
didn't have to leave.

A room of umbrellas
and stripped party hats
teetering on the brink
of chaos and celebration.

Outside, a man in a blue vest,
content with dripping,
looks at his Reisling
intently as the lighted trees
shrink galaxies in between
the buildings.

A young man touches
his wife's hand like
shes leaving for war.
All the while, a lovely
blonde waitress
hurries to clean the
glasses and broken
hearts from the round
table tops.

A piercing smile and
eyes the color
of the canal,
nothing seems to
shake her.
Not even a tall bottle
of Morgan or a
first day cashier.

Confident and young,
kind of like I used to be.
Headstrong in a world
of information
and insanity.

Pushing in a direction
somewhere between
tables and slightly north
of Wolverhampton.
Trying to reach the stars
but finding only tree branches.

The parties leaving now,
moving on to clubs and buses.
A midnight town on
a noon day schedule.

Maybe I'll stay.

Two men hold hands
as the tablenext to them
tries to remember
old dress sizes.
Empty goblets,
loose aprons, and
uncomprehensible art.

Life in a tornado
full of fog.
Just another bloke
at the Ikon
on a Wednesday night.