Tired

It was always the same thing at that bar,
you could leave for days, weeks, months,
and go back and still find the same people

the same situations playing back on loop.
On occasion someone would pass away
from the expected causes, or move

so they could start over. Those moves
would never work out because some
problems don't care about location.

It had been a few months since I had
been there. Walking through the door
felt like slipping a pair of shoes

that had gone past being broken in
and comfortable, to broken down
and ready to be thrown in the trash.

Most of those faces were the same,
some hair was longer or shorter,
the same cigarette smoke clung

to lips and air. I ordered a beer
and whiskey. She asked me how
I had been, I said I was fine,

that things had been busy was all.
I bummed a smoke from the man
sitting on the stool to my right,

both of his arms were covered
by sleeves of tattoos. Most were
faded but still recognizable.

That familiar combination of beer
and whiskey burned the same way
it always had. I sat there and thought

about another round. I couldn't do it.
I got off my stool and walked out,
it was late and I was exhausted.