Little Boat

When my soul is doubtful, I write.

Sometimes… if the rabbit foot hiding in my imagination actually works, then it works.

Does it though?

So many doubts. So many missed chances.

Most other times its just trying, fruitlessly, to open the pickle jar that I call my life.

It continuously wins.

I shook hands with a stranger yesterday.

A bar.

Where the beleaguered believe there is water.

He did not know or ask about my song, that was fine.

But he regaled me with his.

A story of a wife, two children, house down to the fence, shiny toys.

All the ingredients to the recipe called life.

I listened as the drunk spittle built at the corners of the mouth that tried to convince me of woe.

I felt my ire rise within but silent I remained. The gall to complain about all his gain.

I looked him solidly in the eyes and spoke clear, “I die tomorrow. You still need to realize.

There is laughter in other rooms you are not hearing.

There are ridiculous stories your children are telling that you are not applauding.

There is a woman you are not cherishing or kissing,

a woman hiding her defeat with pretend smiles and excuses as you go missing.”

We exchanged friendless hugs and empty promises of future friendless hugs.

But thank you Grant.

I'm currently in dark waters however, I realized I need to appreciate my little boat.

Big or small, they both can keep us afloat.

I smiled through my bourbon and I'll cheers you again.

A nod to you and in fact everything I sip. It was your story that bolstered me that little bit.