IN TRYING I FAIL
Everywhere I go, it's fake. Up
in Callicoon, at one of those
dispatchy old hotel bars where
no ever shuts up, I watch the
flapping jaws take over : now
blowhards, now tyrants; everyone
in the right. Mouths a'jumble.
-
This end of the colorful bar, a
new story or two : the farm girl
newly widowed, out with her
friends for solace. 'They say it
all rolled over on John and he
was crushed.'
-
The barkeep - or whoever that is -
is a crabby old guy, counting, always
counting. Seems like there's never any
fun if that's all you can do. Multiply
the occupied seats by an assumed
number of people entering, and he
already knows his day's take. Must
be the rain bringing him down.
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