Tavernacle

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The handle is tied to the rail,

This door is always open

Coming out of the light or dark.

Red Neon blinks two O’s and

Rain baptizes the Avenue

Glowing those two O’s off and on,

Looking up or down

Outside this narrow shoebox shelter.

A boy’s shoebox of memories

Under his bed, to peek at night

With a flashlight.

How many times his face was bathed in red

Walking toward the bar between the walls

Within a shroud

Of nicotine smoke and music, so loud

You lost your image in your entrance.

A female tending the bar,

Serves salvation of beer, bourbon, wine,

And a host of nuts.

Set down and lifted up over and over again

Until you beat your chest and say; “Enough!”

In the tavernacle of the mind.

 

Many times I brought others to her miracles

She served them all.

Watched them rise from the barstool

Like Lazarus from the dead

Paralyzed and then crawl;

Walk with raised hands upwards to fill a glass

But when I asked,

Served no more

Cut off

Or had miracles for me.

Hung there for so long till they took me away

Without an angel to move my stone

Raise me from my bed

Or pick the thorns imbedded in my head.

I confess in a booth I have sinned

With  human hands and time that made me blind

Left us drinking alone

Some Irish Ale

Or heavily tannin wine.

That handle is still tied to the rail

In the tavernacle of the mind.

 

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Categories: Life, Observations, Places, Poetry

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

1 reply

  1. Your poetry is captivating…

    Like

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