He’s probably leaning against the bar,
   elbow pressed into something sticky,
   letting the whisky rain past reason,
   glass half-full, or half-forgotten?

Maybe it’s the man in the mirror,
   choking on smoke that lingers truth,
   redemption, striking a match,
   watching the flame before it consumes.

It could be the woman dealing chips
   neat stacks, holding towers at the table,
   flushing more than it can fold,
   calling it chance, or calling it control?

Or the kid on the corner, whose hands are
   too quick, slinging dope from palm to palm,
   selling escape in borrowed time,
   riding dragons that never land.

Where’s the monster that’s killing me?
   Numbing the noise to forget the pain.
   I run towards the fire to feel the heat
   just to prove I can still feel anything at all—
                                        And we all fall down…