featherbrain or ‘the bar maids poem’
tomato light bulbs in the window,
a string of red lights,
watched by two blue curtains
falling from the ceiling begging for attention.
a bear walks in. orders a beer.
bottles on the wall framed in brick stones,
red, yellow and white and the grey
slush outside surrounds the earth echoing.
echoes materialise, they pass and liquidate
under frozen rain – always, or they
enter the room – sometimes.
signs on tables
carved by sisters and brothers
spinning on black leather chairs.
in the bar, an old lamp
with holes in her shade,
light escaping going for a hike
on a path through the forest.
a bunny and a bird,
followed by a fox and flowers.
they die in their painting, they dry on the wall
and the man with the moustache remains
still talking about a chance not taken
while the barmaid polishes silver and gold
offering a beer to the green coat.
over so many planks he must have walked,
until the worn out shoes wouldn’t wear his feet no more.
but they brought him here, craving for tea and water,
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