Substances

Men in bars sipping away their malnourished minds, self-indulgent manic delirium, relax in the beloved low lit imperium.

Carouse on cocktails, but never leaving doubt. Always there but never without.

Dependency’s sickness. Habit forming, bonding like thick tar on the essence of men.

Blurred lines of right and wrong, fist to chest their brotherhood, strong.

Passing by outside, the amber haze of dim bulbs and duller eyes pry, choosing the glass and no reasons why.

Pariah, waving salvation, no will inside to escape their own detestation.

Hours by and sailing still, the next shot straight and chill.

Fathers, sons, grandpa’s too. Nobody escaped that leather barstool.

Plucking lives from life and even more, the toll stacking up, greater than any war.

The lacquered bar holding beads of sweat, they all sit and cheer without the slightest fret.

Their faces red and bodies numbed, throats under the pendulum. Behind bars and sobering up. Who cares about some drunken fuck?

The bar closes shop, and the men sift out the door, one by one leaving tonight but returning once more.

Dollars to life savings, lips dry and always these cravings, sobered mess of nerves left withered aching.

The days become weeks and one day they wake from the fog, attending meetings, speaking of that demon in the bottle.

Given a single token for the years of strife, blacked out and never to be woken. Until they admit themselves broken.

A tiny metal chair, sharing names, and reintegration into society. Fighting each day to remain in sobriety.

On the dresser lay a tiny brass coin, inscribed to a man who almost didn’t care to join.