He stood at the bar, drunk but not stinking,
and through blur of mead, found himself thinking
"They're all so damn pretty, every last one.
With every bend they're unwound or undone.
Would curves turn to meet me if I'd spoken aloud?
Or would they just leave me and return to their crowd?"

He pawed at his glass and nodded a moment,
speaking to spirits of love and atonement;
just then a spectre walked into his gaze -
her image a saber that mangled his haze.
Her face was familiar, her body attentive,
he struggled to speak with words so inventive.

Just then another would draw both his eyes,
and then a new dozen would catch his surprise.
They poured in by numbers that boggled and bored.
Despite such duplicity, their looks he adored.
And when at long last, their coming had calmed,
he sat to observe and nursed on his grog.

While deep in the swatch he bathed in their majesty,
composing with words all new forms of flattery.
The skull of the poet that's hinged on his spine
would seek to fulfill his lackings with lines.
The words that may leak from smoke or the sink
may posit the key to all things he seeks.

With locks of persona, containment of truth,
that springs into motion while abiding his youth;
he drifts at a leisure while swiveling stools,
against all the oak and inebriant pools.
Head lays on counter, he's dozing and pink,
he ends the fortuity by spilling his drink.