Marek Jarkovsky
By
Christopher Hopkins
Live a life on a whisky heart
Kaleidoscope movements across acid cut glass.
Drinkers capsize in the finger dulled jars.
An educational refugee
far from the love of home,
caught up, in a whirlpool’s dragging spin.
All welcomed here,
Anonymous and known,
within this home, of brass stained freedoms.
Her smile,
behind the zinc mile,
is knowing and hopeful so.
The first all day directed to me,
and for once,
I am not sunken away with my thumb flick evasion.
My comfort now,
is self induced and self contaminated.
I could live a life on a whiskey heart,
and call in sick
to the Monday mornings of responsibilities.
To feel a little escape from this massing of days,
these black weather moods of nothings.
Oh too drink on,
for an hour or two.
Caught in faux dreaming
of what I still regard home.
Left for progress, now so blush in mind.
That truer life, rejected by youth,
would so appease my fractured run,
of all my nothings, of this modern bite.
Another whiskey clink.
The bitter peat sting.
Another,
And one more.
Proposal at the Bryn
The thought had formed like flint in his mind.
Over weeks it had grown in size.
Although eyes red traced with the dusts
of his life’s gone byes,
his smile still shone out,
still life in the toothless dog.
Dressed and tidy,
as tight as the folded bud,
with his chest out like sails,
he made his entrance known.
Him, with his showy pride,
making its way before him,
parting the bar crowd.
Moses would have smiled.
After the first rum,
the point of order came.
From behind the bar she said ‘yes’.
They said their vows in May that year,
seven years after the passing of his first love.
He would die with his second
by his side,
at his hospital bed,
three years on.
He was happy.
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