an old writer and his words

He leans on the barin the pose of the Thinkerlost in a reverie of Bourbon,odd bits of foolscapscattered about, coastersfor peanut shells,and the odder jotsof the unbegun epic.In the hazeof another cigarettehe fingers the violetworry beads.“Amethustos,” he muttersas if calling fortha god or a musebut his callgoes unreturnedby the unrepentant grain.He imagines himselfa bishop to…