ENDURANCE
This poem was written and titled perhaps fifteen to twenty years ago and describes a scene and adjunct experience I felt when enjoying a favorite Pub in the Broadripple Neighborhood of Indianapolis. I recently went and did a fly-by of the now defunct bar with an old friend who also lamented it's departure and had many a fond memory there. Note that this is also the One-Hundredth poem I have posted to this website so perhaps there is something to the old title but for certain thought about inciting the name of the old bar, "The Wellington".
The bar room is a bed of embers
fanning themselves expediently,
huddling to outlast the dark.
A whoosh of autumn air ruffling
their complexion each time
the door pivots.
I see something happy and worthy,
something like pews filled.
If the eye is the lamp of the body
then the drink is the lamp of the eye.
There isn’t room enough to heal,
It’s too cold outside to run.
But there isn’t an object in the universe
that isn’t whirling around and around.
