by Peter Goldsworthy
He walks out of the pub at dusk,
boots around neck, bare feet
in a cool river of bitumen.
The world had shrunk within earshot---
its horizons vague as traffic
or the scattering voices
slowly losing definition.
He's replaced a dozen schooners of sweat.
Lucky even the foundry's memory
is soluble in beer, and tomorrow's
just the blurred recollection of yesterday---
mere spoondrains
in a road smooth with booze and dreams.
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Last updated February 20, 2023