He leans on the bar
in the pose of the Thinker
lost in a reverie of Bourbon,
odd bits of foolscap
scattered about, coasters
for peanut shells,
and the odder jots
of the unbegun epic.
In the haze
of another cigarette
he fingers the violet
worry beads.
“Amethustos,” he mutters
as if calling forth
a god or a muse
but his call
goes unreturned
by the unrepentant grain.
He imagines himself
a bishop to the bard
his miter
a ragged
woolen watch cap.
He gathers his flock
stuffing them
into his pockets,
ever the protective shepherd
and wanders
through glass doors
into the Elysium darkness.
Amethyst Dreams
