By Chantal Kamphausen
It’s after midnight
and I’ve been sitting here for hours
watching the drops of water
running down another half-drunk bottle of beer
my cigarettes are long gone
and so are the poor bastards
who stumbled in by accident
in hopes of a good time
but no one comes in here for fun
the life-worn, impassive faces of the regulars
tell as much
when the music fades
you can hear the old tales
of poverty, failure and loneliness
mixed with the sweet rhythm
of bottles and glasses hitting the counter
I’ve lost count of the many nights
I spent on this very stool
trying to escape my fate
only to catch a glimpse
of the barkeeper
shaking his head
in an attempt to say:
‘Don’t try, it’s not worth it!‘