12th
Cold as hell,
Unmoved but rotating
Constant spinning, a most annoying flux,
Sit alone amidst throngs, quiet, and aloud,
I hate bars in the evening,
too sober, too personal, no one forgets,
the words you say,
Reality still complete,
intact with shallow remnants of the day,
true dreaming, mild drunkenness, debauchery,
those things don’t occur until
late,
11ish of the bar closes at 2,
2ish if the bar stays open until 4,
Boston’s bar scene is boring, bare-bones,
Barely any bar flys, no happy hour may be,
To blame,
You are left to ponder the earliness of
people’s lives,
If you rise at 4, eat breakfast and
are done by 11 in the morning,
when does your night begin,
Days just waking up and you are
exhausted,
Some goes with the nite owls,
though one suspects they are much more
miscreants than may at first appear.
