"It's all right, I'll be down at the bar," as he went through the door, adding, "praying for wisdom."
* * * * * * * * * *
The bar is my altar; the bartender priest.
The drinks my communion; self-loathing, my mass.
The rickety stool serves as singular pew.
The padded edge of the bar my head's kneeler.
The choir are patrons; their hymns pick-up lines.
Then later the john, a confessional stall,
Where the wisdom comes in waves.
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