Mr. Beene Poem by Laurence Overmire

He shuffles in
like he’s walking on flypaper
each step sticks on the carpet
and only with laborious effort can he
heave his weight forward and
manage yet another.

When finally he sits down
he cranks his neck over his shoulder
and with the lifting of an eyebrow
signals the usual to the bartender:
a double scotch on the rocks.

As the minutes pass into oblivion
the skin hanging from his bones
eyes glazed, hands trembling
some wasted satisfaction
an elusive pleasure
creeps into the hollows of his face
curling uncomfortably in a comatose smile
the years of pain
obliterated
in the dull, unconscious vacancy
of a half-empty
glass.


(Previously published in The Hold, Jan 2005)