End Stool Revisited
by Odin Roark

Always askew,
As if occupants left quickly,
The life of the bar’s end stool.

We’ve all noticed its isolation,
Its quandary haunt as observation point,
Its lighthouse warning,
Stay away from the rocks.

Yes

Its perch is special,
Reserved for the alienated,
Quietly panicking the “more” of life,
Like those occupying the raucous center bar,
Thinking they have it.

We’ve all been there…

The end stool of history,
Ancient as Christopher Marlowe,
Over-worked as Oliver Reed, Richard Burton,and Peter O’Toole,
Real as Bukowski
Contemporary as your own recent isolation.

No one thinks aloneness is desired
That oneness without connection
That “One more!” to the bartender, unheard
Is the answer.

Such is the sadness of lives waiting atop the end stool,
Hoping, thinking they too can become the reality of a dream.