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Queen of the Happy Hour

Poem by Gary Lewis

Sitting alone, a ripped bench for a throne,
a woodbine smoke halo she wears for a crown.
Passing her time with a vodka and lime
as the tears in her eyes come tumbling down.

Composing her feelings as the bar stool goes reeling,
grabbing her glass as it falls to the floor.
her sentiment turns bitter as she gulps the sweet liquor,
And on finishing her drink she makes for the door.

Outside in the street, hair plastered with sleet,
heading home is her life's only goal.
Falls to sleep crying, her hold on life dying,
fire in her stomach, and ice in her soul.

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Copyright The Bentilean, 1990, 1999
Gary Lewis was one of the writers I discovered by door knocking, and he became a regular contributor to the mag -- eventually getting his mother, Ann, to write for us too!

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