He had been sitting there for hours, days,
how many “last calls” had he heard?
He watched Beckett and Eliot come and go
but he sat waiting, patiently, no Godot for him.
He had long since lost his now empty pen,
his pockets grown stuffed with damp cocktail
napkins, the story of his life bleeding slowly
into the worn fabric of the lining of his jacket.
Still, he would wait, always hoping another word
would spill forth, not merely another Guinness.
He had given up greeting all who came and went
with a shouted or whispered slainte, he had grown tired
of the stares of opprobrium, the hushed tsk tsk-ing.
He had mastered waiting, a skill he knew most
lacked, and the few who had it knew to say nothing.
He was certain Dylan would soon arrive,
engulfed in a cloud of ever-present blues, but
he never came, for the dead have no need of whiskey.
Something would happen if he was patient enough,
that was the nature, the law of the universe, and
he knew that this would not be a good night
into which he dare to gently go, so he sat
knowing that dawn would eventually arrive and
free him from the besotted prison of his dreams.

First Published in Literary Odyssey Magazine, Issue 2, March 2024
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